Musical Magic
by Shiruba Fokkusu
Summary: Sevitus: Ever since he was ten, Harry has had a dream every year about a violinist and a cellist. Now, he's realized what it's about.
1. Overture

**A/N:** I've started this story because my orchestra is going to play Harry Potter songs at our next concert. I am a fan of Severitus, and I have a few in my favorites. I do not have a beta, so if you find problems, feel free to contact me in a review or a private message. Constructive criticism is welcomed with open arms and reviews are greatly appreciated (even one liners, I love all reviews). Review as you see fit, and enjoy the story!

**Disclaimer: **This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Musical Magic**

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

**Overture**

Little Harry let a sad smile part his lips as he closed the violin case for the last time. He knew this was the last time he would see the deep red wood of the violin. He would no longer put his fingers onto the string; he could never hold the bow again. His uncle had made sure of that.

Harry knew why he could never play the instrument again. It was because he loved it too much. The music made him happy, and the '_freak'_ didn't deserve happiness. Happiness was rewarded to normal people like Dudley. Harry scoffed at the thought. Dudley's pudgy fingers and fiery temper would surely break the violin in half before he could get through a single scale.

Dudley had dutifully reported to his father that the _'freak' _was doing freakish things with that small cello-thingy at school during music class. Vernon told Harry to bring the violin home one day, even though the school owned it. Once he did, his uncle told him to play the best song he knew. Harry was a naïve child. He thought he could gain his family's acceptance if he enchanted them with his music. So, with a lightened heart, Harry played Concerto in A Minor, 3rd Movement by A. Vivaldi. Harry knew he had played well. He knew he had gotten the rhythm and intonation correct; so why was Uncle Vernon looking so angry?

"You-You're using those _freakish_ powers of yours! A talentless brat like you could never play cultured music!" his uncle shouted, backhanding the ten-year-old. Harry fell backwards, the violin flying out of his hands. With a sickening crunch, he knew that the violin was broken. His uncle stormed upstairs angrily, muttering about _freaks_ who didn't know how to control their _freakish_ powers. Harry picked up the pieces of the violin carefully, not missing anything. He took them into his cupboard to inspect the damage.

The top was splintered, and the sound post could be heard rolling around inside. Ironic, that it had been Harry who had finally broken the beautiful instrument. He concentrated on the violin, his eyes watering. He had fixed things before, but it was never a violin. Harry laid his hand flat on the splintered wood, and took a deep breath. The sound post clattered to where the middle of his palm was, underneath the wood. Taking his other hand, he wove the planks together with an unseen force. Within the next ten minutes, Harry put the finishing touches on the once broken violin. He had fixed his things before, but he knew that he didn't use the powers he had to create the music; that came from hard work at school during recess and extracurricular classes.

Satisfied, Harry tried to open the cupboard door. That was when he realized it was locked. So, he spent the night with the violin, plucking at the strings until he was too tired. At that point, he carefully laid the violin down the bare floor and fell asleep.

The next day, he returned the instrument regretfully, and threw out a random reason to the music teacher. His uncle wouldn't let him play it anymore, but Harry told her that he didn't like it as much anymore. It didn't matter that the teacher saw through the lie. Harry wouldn't see her again. After all, he was going to attend Stonewall next year.

That night, Harry closed the cupboard door behind him. Unfortunately, he hadn't finished his chores that day, so he wouldn't get dinner. Sighing, he sat down on his cot and started imagining his violin. He could hear the notes swirling in his head. He wanted to write the music down, to see it immortalized on paper. For now, he'd just have to settle with hearing the songs in his head.

He hummed a simple tune, but for the life of him couldn't remember the name. It was a recurring s melody that popped into his head every time life threw something hard at him. Harry knew he had never played the song on the violin, but he knew that someone else did. He had once tried to transfer the song from his head onto paper or into the violin, but it was impossible for him.

That night, Harry dreamed of a woman with soft red hair, as beautiful as the varnished wood on his violin. She had fair skin and light freckles. She was playing the violin while a tall man with black hair bowed a cello. The man's hair was a messy curtain in front of his face, so his features were hidden. They were playing the song. It was the song Harry had imagined earlier while imprisoned in the cupboard. They continued playing, and finally at the end, the man stood up, with his hair still blocking his face. He smiled, and then kissed the redhead softly. The woman parted as she looked sadly up at the man. They locked eyes, and the man spoke. There was no longer any sound. Harry couldn't hear the words the man said; he couldn't hear the woman's response. The woman started crying, but Harry still couldn't hear her. She ran into the man's arms, and Harry could see the man's visage. He had a hooked nose and sad black eyes.

They parted unwillingly. The man carefully lifted a bundle of blankets, and lovingly handed them to the woman. The woman's tears quickly increased. She hugged the blankets closer to herself, as the man put the cello in his case. Once he was finished, the man's eyes were also watering. He stood up with his cello safely in its case. Harry knew the man was going to leave. But before he did, the man walked up to the woman, and moved a bit of the blanket aside. Harry saw a baby with tamed dark red hair, almost brown, and hazel eyes.

The man softly kissed the baby's forehead, and swiftly took flight. The woman bent down over the baby and whispered, "You really look like him. Even though he doesn't know you're his child, Severus loves you. We all do." With that, she waved a stick, and the red hair and hazel eyes disappeared. Instead, there were green eyes and messy black hair. That was the only thing he heard from her mouth.

Soon after, chaos ensued. Another man with black hair and hazel eyes was shouting, but Harry couldn't hear once again. He gave the baby to the woman, and shouted something. The woman fearfully ran upstairs with the baby. Once upstairs, the woman hummed the song she and the tall man had been playing. The door burst open. Harry could see the woman weeping even more, shielding her child from the hooded figure in the doorway. She backed away, talking crazily, pleading with the figure, but he would hear none of it. The figure approached, and as he did, Harry could see his fiery red eyes. Harry couldn't hear her, but he could see her anguish, her despair. The figure raised a stick, not unlike the woman's, and uttered two words. The woman fell down lifelessly in the green light, still clutching the baby to her chest. Once again, the figure lowered the stick at a living creature. The same words that had killed the woman burst angrily from the figure's mouth, but instead of killing the child, the green light seemed to explode as Harry woke up from his nightmare.

Ten-year-old Harry gulped and gained composure. He leaned back against the wall of the cupboard, but still couldn't attain the dreamless sleep he longed for. Harry settled for humming the song, and finally fell asleep and dreamed of nothing.

There were the two musicians again. The violinist and the cellist. Whenever the cellist revealed his face, it was impossible for Harry to see any of his features, but he was pretty sure the cellist was his dad. Who else had messy hair like that? Harry had that dream every year since he was ten, and was tired of trying to remember what the woman had said. The first time he had the dream, he could hear her say something. She had said something, and then changed a baby to look the way he did now. These days, he could only hear her screaming, pleading for her only child's life.

* * *

Sixteen-year-old Harry gulped and gained composure. He leaned back against the wall of his room, but still couldn't attain the dreamless sleep he longed for. Harry settled for humming the song, and finally fell asleep and dreamed of nothing.


	2. Dissonance

**A/N: **This chapter is dedicated to Christine Erik, my first reviewer. All reviews are welcome and appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Musical Magic**

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

**Dissonance**

The Beginning of Summer

He had had a lot of time to contemplate Sirius's death. Harry knew who was to blame. It was his fault. The blame also rested on Bellatrix Lestrange (who would get her just deserts), Snape, who failed to do anything, and Sirius, for leaving the house in the first place. Harry might have had a hero complex, but if Sirius ran to save Harry, that meant that the animagus had a hero complex as well. He dwelt with those thoughts almost every night before clearing his mind. He could not afford to lose anyone else due to his stupidity.

Harry was still grieving a week after he got 'home', but he got over it quickly. Actually, he didn't 'get over it'. It was more like he ignored it. He couldn't think about what-if or why-me while he was gardening, cooking, or cleaning.

After being threatened by the Order at the beginning of summer, the Dursleys threw Harry into his room without dinner. He had survived the past month on a single meal each day, if he was lucky and did his chores correctly. However, when he managed to miss a weed or if there was any bit of dirt inside the house, the food was withheld. Each day, after all his chores were finished, he waited in front of the cat flap, hoping the jobs were satisfactory. It seemed as if he was ten again, except he didn't live in the cupboard.

Two days into the summer, Uncle Vernon told him to write a letter to his 'freak friends'. Vernon recited a few words that would suffice as his letter as Harry penned down every single word onto the parchment, exactly how he said it. The gist was that the Dursleys got him a computer and a printer, and that from now on, would type all his letters. Three days after the letter was sent, Harry could hear the locks being undone in the middle of the night. His Uncle Vernon shoved a white muggle paper under his face, telling him to sign it at the bottom. Harry scanned the letter, reading the short and obvious lies his uncle had told. Sighing, the boy signed it, seeing no way to avoid it. The man snatched the paper away as soon as the muggle pen left the paper. He inspected the signature, and then told him to send it with 'that insufferable flying pig'.

Every three days, the same would ensue. Uncle Vernon would write another variation of "I'm fine; my relatives haven't been a problem. In fact, they've been almost kind this summer. I wouldn't mind leaving though." The letters actually sounded like something a quiet and morose teenager would write, so his friends probably wouldn't be suspicious. Harry waited for his Uncle to write something incriminating, something unmistakably wrong that would alert to them that whoever was writing the letters was not Harry.

Alas, nothing of the sort happened. His birthday came and went with a few presents from his friends. He had received them outside, seeing as his window was barred from owls and that the owls wouldn't get near any of Harry's relatives. A book about Occlumency from Hermione, a bag of sweets and tricks from WWW from the twins and Ron, more books, three on defense and another on Occlumency from the Aurors and Professor Lupin, and lastly, an unsigned package that couldn't be opened were the gifts he had been given on his sixteenth birthday.

That night, Uncle Vernon came with a longer typed letter than usual. It read:

"Dear Everyone,

Thank you for the gifts. They mean so much to me. Especially you, Sirius; I loved your gift the most. Loved the books, by the way. I really appreciate everything you've done, guys. I'm okay, but do you think you could pick me up soon? I'm getting tired of this place, not that I don't appreciate my relatives, but you know. Anyway, thanks.

Your Friend,

Harry Potter

When Harry read _this_ letter, he knew that this was his ticket out. Although the reminder of his dead Godfather hurt, this was his chance. His friends couldn't think he was psychotic enough to think that the man was still alive. They'd have to investigate, either by sending a letter, or coming personally. If they sent a letter, it wouldn't go to Uncle Vernon, and the man would continue to type letters that were oblivious of the Sirius mistake.

Concealing his smile, Harry attached the letter to Hedwig's leg. The owl flew off to Headquarters, where everyone was staying for the summer.

The rest of the day passed as usual, but this time, he had had _the dream_. Yes, _that_ dream. Harry fell asleep soon after, without another dream.

Morning light filtered into the sparsely decorated room. Harry sat up on his bed (if you could really call the disfigured lumpy cot a bed) and blinked twice to the little bit of light coming through the barred window. He woke alert. The dream of the cellist and the violin was swirling in his mind. He tried to grasp it, to hold on to the wispy scenes that eluded his mind. Harry desperately tried to remember his mother's words or his father's voice. It was still too early to do anything, so he settled for humming the tune his mother had sung before she died.

Too soon, Aunt Petunia was rapping incessantly at his door. "Wake up! Wake up! You've got chores!" she said in her annoyingly bossy voice. When there were no tell-tale signs of walking, or attempts to even open the door, Petunia undid the locks and barged in. "Boy, what are you-" but she stopped short upon hearing his song. Her face went pale, and she slowly closed the door behind her as she walked in.

"Where—where did you hear that song?" she asked fearfully. Harry suddenly realized that his Aunt was in his room. He shrugged.

"I honestly don't know. I heard it in a dream," he answered faintly, barely realizing he was having a civilized conversation with his evil Aunt.

"Was there—was there a violin, or—or a cello?" she asked, even more fearful than before.

Harry nodded. "A red-headed woman playing the violin. I assume that's my mum. And a man with a cello. I think that's dad," he said. He didn't know why he was divulging these secrets. But if she wanted to know, who was he, the _freak_, to hide the truth from her?

"Your father, James Potter? Ha! He was a tone-deaf drunkard. The cellist was probably that man that used to spend a few months of summer with us. He was a quiet fellow. I don't remember much about him, but his music was beautiful."

He didn't really care much that his Aunt had called his father a drunkard. After all, he had lived eleven years of his life hearing about his parent's fake drinking problem. Curiously, Harry asked one more question. "Do you know his name?"

"Severus Snape."


	3. Sforzando

**A/N:** Yes, the cello is from the movie Truly Madly Deeply. All reviews are appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Musical Magic**

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

**Sforzando**

Harry sat on his bed dumbly, not registering his Aunt's confusion at his expression. Snape? No, it couldn't be Snape. Firstly, Snape was the kind of man who hated music, right? Harry delved deeper into his own mind. Actually, he was the kind of cultured man who knew his manners, painted, played an instrument, knew what fork does what, knew what plant blew up which potion… yes, he seemed the type. If only his hair wasn't so greasy.

"Are- are you completely sure that was his name?" Harry asked, leaning toward her as if the distance between them determined whether he got his answer or not.

Petunia nodded, eager to share information with him like her gossiping buddies. "Perfectly. He had the most charming messy hair—not like yours, mind you. His face was more angular, so it looked better on him than it would on you. He also had the darkest eyes I had ever seen. They were penetrating… like Li- your mother," she said, tripping over her sister's name.

"Then we can't be talking about the same Severus Snape, Aunt Petunia. The Severus Snape I know has long greasy hair, a hooked nose, and has an affinity for black."

Petunia frowned at Harry's description. "Then we must not be talking of the same Severus Snape," she agreed. "Greasy hair, honestly! He did have a hooked and slightly crooked nose, but really, his black eyes offset any flaws he might have had. And yes, the man did seem partial to black. He was also very tall. Quite handsome, if I remember correctly," she said distractedly. Her eyes misted over, and a small smile came to her lips.

"I thought you said that you don't remember much of him?" Harry smirked. Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say. Petunia took offense to the statement. She pursed her lips in indignation and swiftly stood up.

"Hurry up, boy. You've got chores to do! And no dinner tonight!" she said angrily, leaving the room in a small fit of rage. Harry sighed. There must have been a deeper meaning, maybe something like a subplot. If he didn't know better, he'd say that his Aunt Petunia liked the greasy git of a potions master.

Harry stuffed his wand into his back pocket before walking into the kitchen, stretching as he did so. Dudley wasn't up yet, so Harry had ample time to fix a breakfast that wasn't 'horrible'. Petunia was sitting at the breakfast table, muttering about 'ungrateful _freaks'_, all the while checking the mail. Harry glanced at a few letters, noting that today was Thursday, August 1st. Chuckling to himself, he wondered how long it would take for the Order to realize that Harry Potter referred to Sirius Black as if he was alive.

Harry took the last plate of bacon to the table, having been careful not to burn or otherwise maim the food. Petunia distractedly took a piece of bacon and started chewing it. She was glaring at a letter made of parchment in her hand. The handwriting was illegible and small, but the woman seemed to understand every word. She muttered, "Scarlet woman, indeed." She stopped reading. She glanced at Harry, huffed indignantly, and then stuffed both the parchment and the half-eaten bacon in the bin.

He was curious about the letter, but Harry knew better than to just take something from the bin that his Aunt had just thrown away, especially while she was still in the kitchen. Harry busied himself with cleaning the kitchen while Aunt Petunia finished sorting the mail. Finally, she left, probably to attend some sort of brunch with her 'girlfriends'. Harry heard the screeching of the car, and immediately flew to the trash bin. He apprehensively picked it out and smoothed it over. He glanced at the name who had sent the letter. He dropped it.

Heart racing, he picked it up again with shaky fingers. There, in the bottom-right corner, was a signature. There, in that solitary corner, a loopy 'L', followed by scribbles imitating the letters 'I-L-Y', was Lily Potter's signature. He stared at the name as if the world was going to blow up if his eyes looked away. He let his right index finger trace the ink, imagining his mother's fiery red hair and fair skin hunched over a desk, writing her name in scrawled letters.

Finally, he realized that his legs were working. He sat down, and the letters seemed to spread out a bit, making the writing easier to decipher. He began reading the letter:

"Dearest Pet,

I regret having to write this letter to you. If you have it, then my husband and I have passed away. I doubt you're crying now, probably just glaring at this _'freakish _paper made by _freaks'_. But someone needed to know. I can't let this secret die with me. You remember a friend I brought home every summer after my third year at my school. I know you'll remember him. The man with the cello."

Harry's breath hitched in his throat. His mother was talking about Severus Snape. _The_ man who lived to torture him. He was confused. Harry creased his eyebrows and tried to dispel the thought of _Snape_ sleeping in the same house as his mother. A castle was very different from a muggle house.

"I write, knowing you fancied him a bit. Petunia, he was, and is, _mine._"

Harry blinked at his mother's words. Maybe she was talking about James? She couldn't be possibly referring to that insufferable git. Maybe… just maybe…

"_My_ Severus Snape is my only love."

Well, there goes that theory.

"I married James Potter for mostly the wrong reasons. And I say mostly, not all. James is my friend, but my Severus is my love. There is no doubt in my mind that you are making my baby Harry's life hell, just for being the son of Severus Snape and Lily Evans."

Harry was about to faint. His wide eyes were fluttering, and his heart was erratically beating. He laid down the letter, to catch his breath. For some reason, it felt like he had just run a ten-mile race. Harry glanced at the letter on the table, feeling nauseous just looking at it. Snape couldn't be his father. There was no earthly way…and yet, the only way to confirm it, was to finish the letter. Harry couldn't let this lie. If he ignored the letter, it would surely come back to haunt his mind, making him wonder about his true parents. So, taking another deep breath, he picked up the letter, readying himself for the worst.

"My Severus was made a Death Eater, and I found out. I had not known the conditions of his initiation, but in desperation, I ran to my friend, James. I was still in love with my Sev, though. I only found out the truth about his mark after I went to James. I knew what would happen if I was associated with my Severus. Either he would be punished by his Lord, or I would be hunted even more. It was a lose/lose situation. So, I kept up the charade with James. No one believed that my Sev and I were over, so I married James. It was probably the hardest thing for me to do. James knew where my affections lied. My Severus barely knew anything. His skills in Occlumency were meager, so I couldn't tell him that he had a son. All Death Eaters were required to give their first-born sons to the Dark Lord if they had any, and if the Dark Lord found out, then my baby would be _his_. So I let my Sev think I was also in love with James. I wasn't a Slytherin for nothing! I became pregnant by my Sev, even though I was lawfully married to James. James didn't mind. After all, we were just friends. But Severus…Severus was heartbroken. He thought that the child was James's. I had to let him believe it. I had to, lest the Death Eaters take both my child and my love away from me. You must think me a scarlet woman now.

This was where Aunt Petunia stopped reading. He was a bit disturbed by how his mother kept on referring to the snarky Potions Master as 'My Severus', and this must have been the last straw for Petunia. Harry swallowed.

"For some reason, my Sev loved my son. He took care of my Little Harry, as a father would his child. I _know_ he thought the boy was James's. And yet he loved my Harry because my Harry was a little like me. I changed his looks. My Sev thinks that my Harry has tamed dark auburn hair like my younger self and James (one of his friends dyed James's hair black when he was fourteen, and James stuck with it), and hazel eyes, like our mother's and like James's. The glamour makes Harry's facial contours like James's. His real face should be like mine. I hope the glamours are keeping. I have only taken the charms off of my baby a few times, but they should last until he is seventeen. Even without the glamours, his face reflected me more than my Sev.

"Pet, you are my sister, and I know you had a little crush on my Sev. Yes, _my Sev_. I know that you will resent my son. I know _you_ know who my son's father is. He might not look it, but Severus is his father. I am telling you this a year before the glamours wear off, because I have also sent a package to my Harry for his sixteenth birthday. I'd rather have my Harry know a year in advance what is happening to his auburn hair and hazel eyes. I believe his real eye color is bright green like mine. Press my signature to the small emerald square on his package. That will open it. Make sure he gets it. Please Pet, this is my last wish. If I die, my son has to have what's in that package. The legend must live on.

Love,

Lily Potter"

Harry blinked. And then he blinked again…And then he blinked…again. And then he…blinked again. And then…he blinked again. And…then he blinked again…And then he ran upstairs, the letter clutched tightly in his hand.

Desperately, Harry hurriedly lifted up the loose floorboard, almost breaking it completely off in the process. He pulled out the wrapped package. Yesterday, he had not cared about it at all. Today, it was his sole objective. Harry gulped and found the little green square on the bottom. He pressed his mother's signature to the package. The package glowed the same green color as the emerald square. Harry folded the paper and put in into his back pocket. Excitedly, Harry opened the flaps, and pulled out some folded parchment. As he did so, he felt a familiar jerking somewhere behind his navel. His feet left the ground, but he was unable to let go of the folded parchment. Ironically, in that split moment as he was transported, he thought, "Aunt Petunia will kill me."


	4. Bis

**A/N: **All reviews are welcome and appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Musical Magic**

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

**Bis**

Harry landed hard, his eyes clenched shut. They remained closed as Harry berated himself for his stupidity. Honestly, just because an unknown package was 'supposedly' from his 'dead mother', it didn't necessarily mean it was safe. Harry snorted, knowing that his impulsive actions confirmed Snape's opinion of Harry's Gryffindor idiocy.

He lay still, trying to find out where he was. It was probably another of Lord Moldy-Wart's lairs, all dark and grimy. Harry heard nothing and smelled nothing. Slowly, he opened his eyes to cold, stone, walls and stone floors. Looking around, he found desks aligned with cauldrons and a larger desk up at the front. Blinking, Harry realized that he was in the potions classroom at Hogwarts.

He stood and took the parchment out of his pocket. Two papers came out, hand-written with dark green ink. There were about ten staffs on one page in the G Clef, and another parchment with ten staffs in C Clef. Looking at it, he could hear the song in his head. Then he suddenly realized that this was _the song_. The song that the man with the cello, Snape, and the woman with the violin, Lily, had been playing in the dream was written, in green ink as emerald as his mother's eyes. As he stared at it, writing appeared at the bottom, letter by letter. It read:

"My son, I am only doing the best for you. You need to get to know Severus; it is going to important in the upcoming war that you have someone, an adult, to lean on. I know that you can't trust Dumbledore, because of his habit of treating life like a chess game, and Remus… well, Remus can't always be there. Severus can watch over you while at school, and if you two band together, both of you _will_ survive. Above this writing is a song. Severus Snape and I composed it together, and you have probably never heard it. Learn it, little Harry. Learn this song. Memorize it. Play it. Do not let this song die.

Love, Your Mother, Lily"

Harry sighed. Hidden messages, coded songs, it was horribly confusing and annoying. How would he know the truth? How would he know? He glanced again at the sheet music, intending to reread the message. When he looked for the words, they were gone. He looked at both parchments, searching in vain for his mother's writing.

Well, he wasn't going to wait for Snape to find him. Deciding, Harry stood up to visit the Headmaster.

* * *

Severus Snape growled. How on earth did Potter manage to get himself so much attention just by sending one letter? Of course, he was the Boy-Who-Lived, Saviour of the Wizarding World, and all-around perfect Gryffindor. So why bother questioning why the boy got what he wanted?

Dumbledore had told him that Harry had sent a strange letter, something about thanking his Godfather for a book, even though the man was dead. Either the boy was tiring of the Muggle's worshipping, or he really was crazy. It was probably the former. After all, if the 'Saviour of the Wizarding World' was crazy, then he and the entire world would be doomed. Dumbledore disclosed the prophecy only to Severus, seeing as he was the only one who had mastered Occlumency.

Severus was wearing his dark billowing wizard robes, despite the warning Dumbledore gave him before he left. He strolled into the impeccably normal muggle neighborhood, the uniformly light-colored houses making his robes look darker and his face paler. He sneered at the perfection of the dainty houses—the ideal environment for an arrogant and spoiled boy to grow up in. How could three people, cousin, Aunt, and Uncle, make a possibly good boy into such an imbecilic spoilt brat? Lily's characteristics would have outshone those of James's, if only the boy hadn't been coddled so much by his relatives.

Snape remembered the child, a quiet little baby who only cried when Lily was away. He seemed so undemanding and selfless back then. He remembered the first time he saw the boy. Dumbledore had ordered him to check on the Boy-Who-Lived. Potter was probably nine or ten at the time. Severus had followed him to school…

_He had expected Harry Potter to have brown hair and brown eyes, but instead he had black hair like James's colored hair and Lily's green eyes. He probably dyed it, just like his father. And his eyes…Severus convinced himself that babies' eyes could change from hazel to green. There were muggle studies proving that babies born with blue eyes sometimes change to a different eye color naturally, so why not from hazel to green?_

_Snape was looking in through the window, unnoticed by everyone through a Disillusionment Charm. He could only see Harry from the neck up, because he was so short and the window was considerably high, even though he was rather tall._

"_Ah, Mr. Potter! How good to see you!"_ _a rather plump woman said. She was smiling, with brown hair to her chin. She ushered a young Harry Potter into the spacious room, covered in posters about music, instruments, and composers. _

"_Mrs. Blue, I'm returning this," he said hesitantly, holding up a case probably hiding a viola or a violin._

"_Your violin!" she looked scandalized. "Why?"_

_Snape saw Harry's eyes shifting to anything but the woman's eyes. They were definite signs of nervousness. "I…" The woman looked disappointingly down at the boy, but he wouldn't look up. _

"_Listen, I just don't like playing it, okay?" Harry told her impatiently. It was a rude way of saying it. The woman did not deserve his impoliteness just because he was nervous._

"_Is there a reason?" she looked troubled. Snape watched the boy's reaction. Harry looked up at her with creased eyebrows._

"_Does it matter?" he asked with more force than needed. _

_The woman, Mrs. Blue, knelt down to his level, trying to stare at him in the eye. Snape wouldn't have been too surprised if she knew Occlumency. The boy was fidgeting like mad. "Harry?" she started tenderly, "May I please have an answer?" She was firm, yet gentle._

_Harry lost his reserve, and looked into her eyes. "My Aunt Petunia wanted me to learn that thing, but I just don't like it. Will that do?" Severus's eyes widened in bewilderment. Where did the pure little brown-haired boy go? Where was that sweet child who smiled at everything? Lily's sister was just trying to get Harry to remember his mother in the form of song, right?_

_Surprisingly, the woman took the excuse. "Of course, dear. That will do. Are you going to take up another instrument then?" she asked, hopefully._

_Harry scrunched up his nose. "I don't really like music. It- It's for pansies." _

_Snape could see the woman's throat constrict, as his did. She nodded regretfully and put on a fake smile. "So, what class will you take instead of music?"_

"_My Uncle would rather me have an extra period of gym, but I really don't want to. In all truth, Mrs. Blue, I'd preferably have more recess!" he said._

_Mrs. Blue laughed. "Ah yes, I'd think you would." Snape growled low in his throat. _Potter_, not Harry, _**Potter**, _would rather take a whole period of playing rather than his Uncle's wishes? They were practically the same thing! Everything you wanted to do at recess could be done during gym. Severus may not have lived as a muggle, but he'd read several books for the benefit of muggleborn Slytherins. And he knew how most muggle schools operated. _

_Even more, the boy was quitting music. Music was what helped keep Lily alive. If she saw her son now, her heart would be bleeding. _Potter_ was throwing away what Lily cherished. Severus thought deeply about the boy and summarized his findings. Well, if _Potter_ didn't care about his mother's second love, then Severus could not stand by, helping everyone else spoil the boy. If the boy knew about his mother, then surely, he would have at least tried to like the instrument. And if he didn't know about his mother, it was his fault for not caring enough to ask. Snape left the muggle school, deciding to finally check the Dursley house._

"_I've got to go, Mrs. Blue. I need to go collect a few books from the library." Harry said, waving his goodbyes sadly. Mrs. Blue nodded._

"_Well, Mr. Potter, if your Uncle ever lets you have a violin again, visit me. I'd love to hear you play. I'd suggest asking the librarian for this specific book," she handed him a slip of paper, "It's about Vivaldi. I think you'll enjoy reading it during recess."_

"_I will. Thankyou, ma'am." Harry Potter nodded and left the music room, taking one last look._

_Severus had refused to watch the spoil brat the entire day, so he merely visited the Dursley house. The two boys had been at school, Vernon Dursley was at work, and Petunia Dursley (Snape shuddered at the woman's name), was at some sort of gardening club. He had needed confirmation of Potter's happiness just so that Dumbledore wouldn't worry. So, he went up the stairs without checking the sitting room or kitchen. There, he found a room full of toys, a big comfortable bed, and several other childish paraphernalia. Then a room of broken toys and books, and another room with few furnishings. That must have been the other boy's room. Severus didn't need to see anything else, so he had left._

These days, about six years later after he saw Potter throw away the violin (figuratively), he still didn't regret it. Now, he was on the steps of the muggle house. Glaring at the absurd normalness of it, he rapped on the door. Petunia opened the door, gasped, and then slammed it. Needless to say, the Potions Master was a bit more than annoyed. He blasted the door open.

"Mrs. Dursley," he said, saying her last name with disgust. "Where is Mr. Potter?"

Petunia paled greatly. "Him! Oh, um, he's…I don't know," she said with a small voice.

"How do you not know where your charge is?" he growled. Honestly, these muggles let him get away with anything.

"You know, you're a lot meaner now than you were back then—" Petunia started with vigor, but then faltered at one of Snape's more frightening glares.

"Then may I look upstairs?" he said with limited patience.

"No, no," she answered, lifting up the door. Then, with a bit more confidence, she glared at him. "You're going to have to do something about my door." That must have been from where Potter got his manners, or lack of. Petunia had learned to ignore most of Severus's death glares back when he used to spend part of the summer at the Evans's house. It was annoying, how she could stand up to him. Usually, terrorizing his students' parents was more amusing than terrorizing the children.

"Then tell me where he is." Severus snarled, as if Petunia was one of his first years.

Petunia took a breath, and then looked him in the eye. "He disappeared. I left to go to brunch with a few friends, and when I got back, he was gone." She couldn't have been lying.

"I have a letter from him. Apparently, he thinks that Sirius Black is still alive." Severus handed her the letter that the Order had received yesterday.

She scanned it, and then read it again. "Well…he never told us that his Godfather had passed away. What happened?"

"He didn't tell you? The man was murdered by his cousin while they were in the Department of Mysteries trying to save Potter from Death Eaters," he told her. Now, why wouldn't the Boy-Who-Lived tell his relatives from another daring escape from the clutches of the Dark Lord?

"He hasn't told us anything. Why would you have to save him from Death Eaters anyway? I thought he was safe at Hogwarts?" Petunia asked. So, Potter thought his relatives didn't deserve to know what was happening. The boy probably hadn't even warned them of the growing threat of the Dark Lord.

"Hogwarts, like any other place, can be infiltrated. That includes your home as well. And your family is most likely in even deeper water than other muggles because of your association with Harry Potter."

She didn't seem to care. "Instead of making threats to my family, you should be looking for that boy. Now, please, get out of my house," she said with less impudence than before.

"Yes, Mrs. Dursley. I believe I'll be going," he said, leaving. Once again, Potter was trying to gain attention by 'disappearing'. Snape apparated to Hogsmeade, intending to report to Dumbledore and then go down to his dungeons to brew a few potions.

After arriving at Hogwarts, he tapped his foot impatiently on the moving spiral staircase on the way up to the Headmaster's office. He was about to knock on the door when he could hear muffled voices.

"Thank you, Headmaster. I'll just go up to the Gryffindor dorms and settle in," with that, footsteps were heard and the door opened.

Snape was shocked but covered it when he saw the boy. "Potter!"


	5. Da Capo

**A/N: **Thankyou for all your reviews! For you readers who may have my story on your alert or favorites list but haven't reviewed, please, please review. Even if it's to say: update soon. All reviews are welcome and appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Musical Magic**

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

**Da Capo**

"Ah, Severus! So glad you could join us," Albus Dumbledore said amiably. "Now, you see, Mr. Potter will be residing in the castle for the rest of the summer, so you two might want to get along."

Snape was mildly pissed. He had searched through that horrid muggle neighborhood looking for a boy he didn't even like just to come back tiredly to a remaining summer with Potter, of all people! That said, he was still only mildly annoyed. After all, he was exhausted, and as long as he didn't have to communicate with the boy, he would still be sane by the beginning of term.

After Severus closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, he muttered, "Might want to get along, my greasy ar—" Severus could sense Potter's eyes searching him, and it was a little unsettling.

"Now, now, it won't be too bad. And if you two really detest each other so much, then the only time you'll have to see each other is at meals," Dumbledore grinned, looking very much like a pyromaniac with a roomful of lighter fluid and an endless supply of matches.

Potter sighed as well, but avoided eye contact when Severus looked at him. As if he was the one suffering from this arrangement. Severus sniffed snootily, a bit like Petunia, and stalked out of the room. His robes billowed behind him, and Potter still hadn't spoken.

It was only when he was adding Baneberry to a mixture that he realized that Potter hadn't acted much like Potter. The boy had been quiet and observant, almost bordering on Slytherin. He tried to shrug the slight disturbance off, stirring his concoction like there was no tomorrow. With a sigh, he tossed in some Moonseed and watched the potion simmer.

Still watching for any problems, he wiped his hands on his apron. Yes, his apron. Severus didn't use the black apron during classes, because he never brewed while he was supervising the little cretins. When he was alone in his private lab, he normally used it. He needed the thing so that his robes wouldn't get dirty whenever he absentmindedly wiped his hands when they got dirty. He also used to tie his hair, because otherwise he'd comb his hand through his hair in the middle of a potion. Occasionally, he'd get a lethal potion on his head. That only happened twice. Thankfully, with a particular girl's help, he had found an alternative. Severus cringed at the memory.

_Severus Snape was glaring at the girl in front of him. "What?" he asked, for what must have been the eightieth time. They were in a room decorated in whites and soft green hues. A cauldron sat between the two people, the only thing that kept one from strangling the other._

"_Honestly, Severus Snape! You really must do something about that messy hair!" Lily exasperatedly said._

"_I thought girls liked messy hair, from seeing Potter strutting about with all his groupies, this year," he muttered, giving her a look._

_Lily frowned at him. "You're not jealous again are you?" Sev was about to respond when Lily shushed him. "No, no, don't answer that. So, you can't tie your hair—"_

"_Can't tie my hair? And why not!" a scandalized Severus said fiercely._

"_Because even if you tie it all up, which takes you quite a bit of time, it stills end up looking unkempt and messy. And with your habit of rubbing toxic potions into your hair, tying wouldn't help. Really, after the past year, I'd think you would want to straighten your hair or something."_

"_Straightening it would turn my hair into straight, dry dead cells as apposed to messy, shiny dead cells." Severus paused and then ventured another quip. "You know, Potter completely stole my look," Severus said, actually grinning._

_Lily offered him a kind smile in return. "He really did. Messy black hair looks much cuter on you than on James." For her efforts, Severus Snape reddened a bit._

"_Erm, okay. So, what do I do? I can't come back from hols looking exactly like James bloody Potter, and it's not like I enjoy having to tie my hair every potions class."_

"_Why not...cut it?" Lily asked desperately, but Severus just looked her in the eye. "Cut it?" he repeated. "If I cut it, I'll look even more like that prat, Potter!"_

"_Cutting it is out…you know what, I'll go get us some lemonade, and you get started on that impenetrable potion," she said, leaving her room. There was a safe area in Lily's room that had been covered with a potion known to make other potions ineffective upon contact and make things underneath the potion unable to escape. That was the only place where Lily's parents allowed them to concoct potions. He had to renew that one part with another impenetrable potion every summer._

_Severus sighed, and took out numerous ingredients. He laid them out on Lily's table, and got to work. He spent his summer experimenting with fairly safe ingredients, with Lily at his side. Although magic with or without a wand was prohibited, brewing was not. With carefully measured slices and a precise eye, he picked up the last two ingredients. Combined, those two ingredients were harmful to human skin but were necessary for the potion to work or have an effect at all._

_Lily walked in, disgruntled, with an open white bottle in her right hand. At that moment, destiny intervened. It seemed like it happened in slow motion, but in reality, it lasted for a mere three seconds. A blur (looking oddly like a certain someone's sister) swept passed her, and Lily fell forward, knocking the two ingredients away from Severus as he turned around. One out the window, and the other into her closet. The bottle remained safely in her hand, but a green, almost clear substance flew from the bottle into the cauldron. She blanched, and Severus blanched along with her, staring into Lily's frightened eyes._

_Then, it exploded._

_Severus shielded Lily from the potion. He looked at the damage. He had a lot of the potion in his hair, but otherwise, the room was pretty much unharmed. "Lemonade wouldn't have done that," he said, as he helped Lily up from the ground._

"_That's because that wasn't lemonade." She stared at the concoction in the cauldron._

_Severus raised an eyebrow. "Then what was it?"_

"_It was…" then, Lily grew quiet, almost timidly._

"_It was…" Severus repeated and urged her on. Lily sighed and plopped down on her bed, just a small splotch splashed with potion. In turn, he looked at her in the eye, daring her to refuse him an answer. "Fine! It was shampoo!"_

"_You expected me to drink shampoo?" Severus exclaimed in his dark manner._

"_Of course not, Sev. And no, it is not a muggle thing. Even muggles don't drink shampoo," she glared at Severus's rash reaction. "That shampoo was intended for uncontrollable hair. It's like that hair-straightener I tried using on your hair last summer, except it leaves the hair moisturized. Meaning, you hair would be straight, but still have that 'glossy shine'."_

_Severus sighed. Really, she had had good intentions. "So why didn't you just say you were bringing up shampoo instead of telling me about lemonade?"_

"_It was a coincidence, really. Yesterday, Pet and her friends drank all the lemonade we bought, and when I was downstairs, I found the shampoo bottle still in the grocery bag." She shrugged. When Snape did nothing but look thoughtful, Lily stood up. "Well, I'll inspect the damage." It was a phrase she said every time a potion exploded, be it hers or Severus's. More often than not, it was hers. She glanced around the room, but found her furniture only a bit greasy. She couldn't find anything._

"_I got some on my hair," Severus admitted, turning around for her to see. Lily examined his head and then clapped her hands._

"_Brilliant!" she said happily._

"_Brilliant?" he repeated._

"_Would you stop repeating me today? Anyway, your hair! It's straight, not messy, and well, you look a bit scarier, but other than that, wow! The shampoo seemed to have worked without lathering. Oh, it's also just a little greasy, but we can fix that with some other shampoos. Or potions."_

_Severus ran a troubled hand through his hair and was surprised to note that some ingredient residue from his hand didn't end up on his hair. He looked at Lily's vanity mirror, and saw that his hair had the same properties as the area of Lily's room had. But that was strange. The two missing ingredients would have had to be in the potion to make it work. Without a word, Severus snatched the shampoo bottle away from the stunned girl and looked at what it was composed of. His eyes brightened as he realized that the shampoo had the same two ingredients as the two he had lost. "We've discovered a new potion."_

"_Huh? Sure, you added a useless potion to a shampoo that straightens your hair, but that's hardly new potion," Lily said doubtfully._

"_No, no. Here," he handed her a permanent marker. "Try to color my hair—the strands that were affected by the potion." Lily took the marker and looked at the boy as if he were crazy. Seeing her look, Severus added, "Just trust me. If my hair gets ruined, I won't blame you." She still didn't want to risk it. "I know you've been wanting to color my hair with a marker just for fun…" At that, Lily shrugged, "What could it hurt?" and colored a single strand with a bright orange permanent marker._

_Nothing happened. Surprised, Lily continued on the same strand, coloring, coloring, and coloring until her hand got tired. "That makes no sense though. I might not be very good at potions, but I know that those two ingredients you were supposed to put in were essential for it to work, otherwise it would be neutralized!"_

"_Look at the components of the shampoo." Severus handed it to her, and after skimming it, she gasped. "Oh, so we _have_ made a new potion!" She stared at the ingredients more and her eyebrows were knitted._

"_Sev, with this combination, these specific ingredients mixed with the ones from the impenetrable potion, this concoction is now imbedded into your hair strands semi-permanently," she said. "Sorry to tell you, but this potion won't come away for at least a few years, until you get it cut."_

_Severus didn't react much. "My hair…oh well, it was just hair. I'd rather my hair be semi-permanently ruined rather than your pretty red locks."_

"_That was an interesting compliment, Severus Snape. Well, seeing as you can't brew now with this cauldron," she motioned to greenish substance covering it, "let's work on that sheet music I've been dying to finish."_

_Severus agreed. It wasn't like they could just Evanesco the potion away, seeing as they would have to use their wands. And he would rather play his cello with Lily than clean up a messy cauldron._

"_Either way, I think I like your tamed hair just a tad bit more than your messy hair."_

The memory faded as he vialed the potion. After the potion wore off, which was in his seventh year, people thought he was imitating James. Of course, he couldn't have that, now could he? So, with few regrets, he had recreated the potion and applied it to his hair. After everything that happened, Lily didn't mind his greasy hair, knowing she had an accidental part in it. She had even supported his idea to use the potion again. Severus sighed at the memory of Lily. All those years ago, they had been so happy, so carefree. They had felt comfortable enough around each other to let themselves go crazy.

And even after all they went through, she still ended up marrying James. And even after they both died, he still had to put up with an arrogant copy of James during the school year, and now the summer.

Severus shelved the completed potion, unwilling to do another. He looked around his private lab for anything out of place or for anything he could do. A closet lay to the side of the room, and Severus knew what was inside. He ignored the fleeting thought of opening the closet and reveling in the past. Instead, he left the dungeons for a nice hike in the Forbidden Forest. Where else could he get such cheap ingredients?


	6. Polyphony

**A/N: **The room described in this chapter is the exact room of my violin teacher. All reviews are welcome and appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Musical Magic**

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

**Polyphony**

"Thank you, Headmaster. I'll just go up to the Gryffindor dorms and settle in," with that, Harry walked toward the door and opened it.

"Potter!" Harry blinked. There, in the flesh, was Snape, his father.

He heard Albus speak behind him. "Ah, Severus! So glad you could join us. Now, you see, Mr. Potter will be residing in the castle for the rest of the summer, so you two might want to get along."

Harry observed Snape's reaction. He seemed angry, but not too angry. The man directed a mild glare at him, but it seemed like he wasn't even aware that he was glaring. In fact, he looked more tired than angry. Harry was still watching him when Snape closed his eyes and muttered, "Might want to get along, my greasy ar—"

"Now, now, it won't be too bad. And if you two really detest each other so much, then the only time you'll have to see each other is at meals," Dumbledore grinned, looking very much like a pathological gambler with continuing losses and an endless supply of money.

Harry sighed after hearing Dumbledore's happy pronouncement. He looked up, but avoided eye contact with his teacher. Snape sniffed disdainfully, reminding him of Aunt Petunia. He strode out of the room. Only then, did Harry speak.

"Sir, I need to get my things from the Dursleys," he said. Dumbledore seemed to contemplate the next action.

"Well, Severus could have gotten your things when he went to go check on you if I had known earlier. I suppose I can send Rubeus or Minerva to fetch them, since I believe Severus's day has been rather tiring. Yes, you should go to the dorms. Your school supplies will be sent to your room when they are retrieved."

Harry thanked the Headmaster and let his feet take him to the dorms. He really didn't know what to do. The information about his father could potentially kill both of them if he wasn't careful. Should he tell the man? The man who belittled and tormented him since his very first class? The man who was prejudiced against a boy just because his mother married another? Maybe that was why he was so bitter. Snape loved his mother, however incredibly gross it might seem.

As for the letter…Harry groaned. When he showed the sheet music to the Headmaster, the music had disappeared. In its place on one page was a letter, written specifically for Dumbledore and Harry's eyes, and on the other page was another letter, written only for Harry. Lily was a cunning Slytherin, that he knew now. For some odd reason, she didn't tell Dumbledore of Severus, but that it would be more beneficial to have Harry stay at Hogwarts for the summer. And the second time he read it, she was telling him that he had a year to tell someone who could reapply the glamour.

She had said something about red hair and hazel eyes, but that had made no sense. As far as he knew, he always had black hair and emerald eyes. He ended up filing that information away for later use.

He found himself in the sixth year dorms, not knowing how he maneuvered around the staircases and got past the Fat Lady without saying the password. He sat down on the only bed in the room, thinking of various things to do. He only had the sheet music, but he couldn't really do anything until he found a musical instrument. He didn't trust his voice to come up with the right notes. Threatened by boredom, Harry folded the sheet music and tucked it under the mattress. It wasn't very creative, but it would do for now. There was no chance he was going to lose it by putting it in his pocket. God only knows what could happen if Snape found it.

Harry headed for the quidditch pitch. Unfortunately, he didn't have the Firebolt because of Umbridge, so he ended up using a Cleansweep. Mind you, they were ancient, but they were the best, considering the other brooms in the shed. He mounted the broom and flew into the sky. Up here, he had no troubles. He had only the wind flying through his hair and his broom lifting him higher into the sky every second. He floated for a while, enjoying the wind.

His eyes lightened at the ideas and tricks he could perform with no one watching him. Successively, he weaved in and out of the quidditch goals, fitting through the smallest with little difficulty. Each time, he increased his speed, unconsciously trying to push the broom's limit.

A grin appeared on his face as he glanced around the quidditch pitch. He had never attempted it, but it was something he'd always wanted to do. His grin widened, as he maneuvered his broom in front of the topmost pole on one side of the pitch. He shot upwards, higher than before. Then, he looked down at the tiny quidditch pitch. He dove. Tears were gathering in the corner of his eyes from the intense speed and winds. As he neared the ground, he closed his eyes in exhilaration. He shouldn't have.

Harry gave a shout as his broom jerked. Harry opened his eyes to find the Cleansweep bucking like a bronco. He tried to gain control of it, but only succeeded in making his hands hurt from gripping it too tightly. He desperately looked around, trying to see if someone was cursing the broom. For some reason, the broom stopped bucking. He lowered himself to the ground and jumped off.

He sighed and picked up the fallen broom. Harry inspected it, and found that part of the wood was splintering. He brought it back to the shed, disappointed by the broom's performance. Cleansweep really was ancient.

As he walked to the Gryffindor dorms, he couldn't think of anything to do. He could visit Hagrid, but he didn't feel like it. He could get a bite to eat from the kitchens, but he didn't feel like it. He could do his homework, but he didn't feel like it. He could a number of things, but he didn't feel like doing any of them. He was bored. At least at the Dursley's house, he had things to do. Here, there was no cleaning, cooking, or whatever. There was nothing.

Finding nothing else to do, he took the sheet music from under the mattress. He put it in his pocket and knew what he could do to occupy his time. With a grin, he purposefully opened the portrait door and started running to the Room of Requirement. Honestly, he had had access to it all year, and not once did he ask the room for the chance to play the violin again. He ran across it three times and opened the door. He wasn't disappointed.

It was small, compared to what the room usually looked like during D.A. meetings. The walls looked red with black sponged onto it, giving them a crimson color and the floor was wooden. It was furnished specifically for a musician. There was a black grand piano to the left. On the back wall was a portrait, seemingly of a white-haired woman holding a violin and bow. At closer inspection, a small name of the subject was written on the lower right corner: Antonio Vivaldi. A lamp stood in the back right corner, and beside it, there was a shelf full of random knickknacks. There were fancy china, a clock decorated with musical notes, little figurines, and other artistic paraphernalia, including three different metronomes. Two blue bottles shaped like violins hung on the right wall above a fancily carved wooden stand. There, right beside the piano was a chair. Now, it wasn't a glorious chair. It was made of deep brown wood with simple patterns carved into it and the cushion was a creamy white. The armrests had cream cushions as well. But it wasn't all that that made Harry stare at it. No; it was the black case resting on the armrests.

With reverence, he unbuttoned the flaps and unzipped it. Taking a breath, he opened it. He stared for a moment before coming back to himself. It was the exact same violin and case he used six years before. The fabric was a faded green with a red stain in the corner. There was still an almost unnoticeable discoloration of the wood on the violin where it had splintered. Although everything seemed the same, the strings were different. Instead of the dirty gray strings that always went out of tune (the Dursleys would never buy strings, even in his wildest dreams), there were three immaculately clean and tuned strings and one golden E string. He plucked the A string, and the sound echoed through the room. Harry took out the bow and tightened it. The bow hairs were yellowish from the lack of rosin, but the stick was still a fine brown wood. He opened the small compartment in the case and found amber rosin wrapped in red fabric. After applying the rosin on the bow hairs, he found a shoulder rest where there previously had been nothing. Shrugging, for after all, this was the Room of Requirement, Harry put the shoulder rest on the violin.

Finally, he put the sheet music on the wooden stand. He stood before it, wondering why it was suddenly so hard to lift the instrument. With an intake of breath, he raised the violin and put the bow on the strings. Harry played an A major scale before looking at the parchment again with three sharps. Harry played the first note on the paper, and smiled. He played the next few notes, happy that he was playing once again. He bowed, back and forth, taking in the dynamics, making sure to fluctuate the phrases as if he was telling a story.

And he was happy. The music flowed through the room and enveloped him. He could still play. After so many years, he could still play. The music was simple, so it was easy to let himself go. Thoughts of his mother floated into his mind. Her flexible fingers ran crazily up and down the fingerboard. Her other hand loosely held the bow, pulling it in the right directions, rather than pushing it. Her fiery red hair, bright green eyes, smooth fair skin, complimented her smile as she played. He could picture her. And beside her was Snape. He was startled out of his dream world when he hit a terribly wrong note.

"Snape…" he thought, disgusted. "Why Snape?"

He couldn't play while his mother, Lily, was running through his mind with Snape instead of James. He moved the case to the floor and sat down on the chair. Harry sighed. Snape…did the man deserve to know? Should Harry tell that greasy git that Harry was his son? Did it really matter? What could possibly happen if he kept this to himself for the rest of his life? Actually, he'd only have to keep the secret for the rest of Snape's life. So, it was settled. He would never tell Snape. Never.

* * *

Severus Snape walked back to the castle from the Forbidden Forest. He had collected all sorts of ingredients, and he was satisfied. Suddenly, there was a shout. He flew to the quidditch pitch, completely sure that the Boy-Who-Lived would find himself in the infirmary before school even started. Potter was trying frantically to control a bucking broom. He sensed no outside magic on the broom. Sighing at the boy's stupidity (for surely, he must have done something stupid to make the broom go crazy without having someone enchant it.), he used a spell to calm the broom down. Potter floated slowly down to earth. The boy sighed and looked at the broom. Snape watched as Potter left the pitch, probably to get another broom and try to kill himself again. Well, Severus would not be here to rescue him again.

Snape left, taking a long route to get back to the castle. He really had nothing to do, and walking around would most likely give him time to think of potions without becoming distracted. He took his time and finally arrived in the dungeons. He laid the ingredients on his desk and sat down on his chair.

"Potter…" he thought, disgusted. "Why Potter?"

Of all the students, why did Potter have to spend the summer there? Oh wait, it was because he was Gryffindor's Golden Boy. He had already created trouble by riding an old broom. What else could he do? Potter would have to have some discipline. His relatives may have allowed Potter to go crazy during the summer, but he would not have some sixteen-year-old running the school. He still remembered what he had seen six years ago, and Lily's son wasn't any better. The boy still lacked discipline and thought. He had hoped that Potter would make it into Slytherin so that he could teach the boy the way of the snake. Instead, he had to go into Gryffindor, just like his father. Foolish bravery was not going to win this war. Cunning was going to. And Potter's cunning should have been harnessed instead of his stupidity.

Severus didn't want to brew, so instead, he left to walk the halls of Hogwarts. As he was passing by a corridor, he heard something that made his blood freeze. He hadn't heard it in sixteen years, and for some reason, he was hearing it now. He shook it off, for it had ended. He convinced himself that it was merely old memories that had resurfaced. There was no possible way for anyone in the castle to play that song. No possible way. Right?


	7. Tritones

**A/N: **All reviews are welcome and appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Musical Magic**

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

**Tritones **

The song had shaken him, and now, it was all Severus could think of. The way it was played wasn't familiar to him. Judging by the pitch, the instrument could only have been a violin. Whenever Lily had played that song, the vibrato was clear and the notes were more expressively happy. When he had imagined the song again, for it could only have been his imagination, it was not Lily's song. It was not his own, either.

How much he wanted to hear it again. The song. The song he and Lily had composed before he ruined it with the Dark Mark. Severus sighed. He so wanted it, but it was stupid to even think he'd be able to play after all these years. He dismissed the silly thought of trying to play again and instead decided to brew in the dungeons.

Severus chose an easy potion to brew by rote and didn't require much thought. He tossed on his apron and got to work. Inevitably, his mind drifted over to the song, and he forgot about his potion. He found himself staring at the closet. Before he knew it, the potion was smoking and he was in the middle of dropping in the leaf of an Easter Lily. He froze and shook his head angrily. How could he get distracted like that? This potion didn't even require the lily until the very last step, and he was nowhere near it.

Judging by the smoke and the murky brown color, Severus concluded that the potion was useless. He wasted and used so many ingredients, he couldn't remember which set off the smoke. Sneering at his lack of concentration, he quickly said an "_Evanesco_," and left. The rest of his days ended similarly, either with a useless potion or a successful but weak potion. And his ingredients were unfortunately running out.

That is, until the 30th of August, when Dumbledore called him up to his office. It was a Friday and two days before the brats would come pouring into the castle. He took the floo to the Headmaster's office and brushed himself off once he landed gracefully.

Dumbledore's eyes brightened at the sight of the Potions Professor. "Ah, Severus! Now let's just wait for the last person…"

There was a knock on the door. "Professor?" a young voice said from the other side. Snape growled. Not potter. _NOT POTTER!_

Snape started at once. There must have been one reason for the three of them to be in one room so close to the beginning of the school year. No matter what either of them said, he was not going to teach the little monster Occlumency! "Headmaster—"

"Harry, please come in," Albus said happily, as the twinkling forced Severus near-insanity. Potter walked in, tripping on some nonexistent obstacle and managed to right himself.

"Professor Dum—Snape! Wha- What is he doing here?" Harry asked Dumbledore with his eyebrows in a position suggesting disbelief and confusion. "He doesn't need to be here. The Weasleys were going to take me to Diagon Alley. Or is Pr- Snape?"

Snape whirled to Dumbledore. "I am not going to take," Snape paused and then jabbed his index finger at the boy "_him_ anywhere." Dumbledore's twinkling didn't lessen. In fact, they seemed to be twinkling even more crazily than before.

"Weren't you complaining about the lack of potions ingredients, Severus? And really, what harm could come from escorting Mr. Potter to Diagon Alley?"

What harm? _WHAT HARM! _Severus managed to reign in his angry emotions and settled for a disconcerting dark tone. "Headmaster, I'm sure you realize than when, not if, my more… colorful associates find me with the Boy-Who-Lived," was that a grimace he saw on the Golden Boy? "disaster will ensue. Especially for the Order."

"I'm sure that that won't be a problem. After all, you need ingredients, and Mr. Potter needs supplies. Why go separately when you can go together? That story should be efficient for your more colorful associates. Especially when you have such a senile old Headmaster telling you what to do." Dumbledore closed the argument expertly by adding, "Before you go, would either of you like a Lemon Drop?"

Without answering, Severus stormed to the floo and looked back at Potter. "Mr. Potter, are you coming or would you rather stay here and attend school even more unprepared than usual?" With a glare, Potter shoved past him, threw the floo powder into the fireplace, and shouted, "Diagon Alley!"

Severus growled at the boy's impertinence. He turned his head slightly, to give Dumbledore one last glare before also throwing the powder.

"—Greasy git, he is," a voice said.

"Seamus, he might be here any moment!" Severus landed just in time to see Potter scold the Finnigan boy.

"In fact, I am here right now," Severus said, taking advantage of his great stature. He could hear both boys gulp. "Mr. Potter, we have a tight schedule." Without checking if the boy was following, Severus walked to the back of the Leaky Cauldron and tapped the necessary bricks.

He continued to the apothecary, thinking about all the potions he wouldn't be able to accomplish due to the upcoming school year. And Potter. That boy would be the death of him, always getting into trouble. How was he supposed to do anything with that little horror running the school?

Dying to get rid of the boy, he dropped him off at Flourish and Blott's and instructed him to buy his books and stay there until he was called.

Indulging in his thoughts, he entered the apothecary and gave the manager his list of ingredients. There were adults and their children for the school year. Ignoring the cowering children he'd have to teach that year, he took his purchases with one last glare at each and every little monster within sight.

Judging by the time, Potter should have been finished. After all, how long does it take to go up to the man and give him a list? Knowing Potter, it would take more time than they were allotted.

Shrinking a few ingredients, Severus glided to Flourish and Blotts. He entered and once again spotted the many tiny horrors he'd have to teach. He approached one of the managers, but he couldn't tell whether the man was a Flourish or a Blotts.

"I dropped off Harry Potter here earlier. Could you possible find him without being too conspicuous?" Snape asked him. The man grunted and looked at him strangely.

"And why, sir, would you be asking for Mr. Potter?" he asked suspisciously.

"I don't believe that is any of your business, but I am his professor, Severus Snape."

"Snape! The Snape who wrote The Deadliest Draughts and Their Antidotes! Oh, sorry sir!" the man straightened and then a regretful look took over his face. "Professor, I'm afraid we don't have a way to locate anyone without using a Sonorous, unless he's by one of the portraits."

"Then look for him!"

The man went behind the front desk and bent down below the tabletop. Severus heard some muttering and a bit of shouting that didn't sound like Flourish or Blotts, or whatever his name was. "Nope, none of the portraits have seen him, so it probably means he's at the back of the store where all the more _specialty_ books are." _Specialty_. Meaning something Severus didn't even want to consider, or dark arts, or some other miscellaneous book Potter deemed worthy.

"Bloody bookstores and their medieval technology…" Snape muttered. "Fine, I'll find the boy myself."

"Good luck, Professor!" the man called after him. Pathetic suck-ups. Snape snorted to himself, thinking of the idiotic man and his useless methods. Honestly, why have portraits at all if there were none in the back of the store, where suspicious customers were more likely to have themselves a five-finger discount. He silently walked in between the bookshelves. If he was going to waste his time searching for Potter in the back of a considerably huge bookstore, he might as well scare the boy in the end.

Severus turned a corner without making his robes billow at all and happened upon Potter. There were many books that were the same size as a textbook but were too thin and paperback to be mistaken for one. A blue book had the word 'MAZAS' in big bold on the very top and bigger words below it. There were other books, each a different color but with the same style. There was another book in the boy's hands, but from where he was standing, he couldn't see the title. Seeing as the boy was reading, he decided to see what book was worth the Golden Boy's time. Snape snuck behind him, reading over his shoulder.

'Bowings and rhythms may be combined in dozens of different ways in the practice of scales and arpeggios.'

What was the boy reading? Why of arpeggios and scales? As far as he knew, the boy had abandoned music at an early age. Maybe, just maybe, Potter finally found the joy that both he and Lily had discovered in music.

With practiced ease, Severus silkily said, "Why Mr. Potter, reading up on music, of all things? Is it possible that the Golden Boy has become a," Snape paused only for a second to give meaning to his next word, "_pansy?_"

As expected, the boy jumped up as he dropped the book. "Snape!" he shouted in surprise and strangely, was that fear Severus sensed? "I-I'm not! It's not what it looks like!" In retrospective, people usually were afraid when he snuck up on them.

Severus raised an eyebrow expectantly. "Then, pray tell, what is it?" Severus took joy in seeing the boy so panicked.

"First of all, I don't like all this classical music at all," Potter started, venom tracing each and every word, "and secondly, I was looking for something for…Aunt Petunia!"

Snape was thoroughly and completely enraged. Instead of throwing a biting remark at the boy, like he was sorely tempted to do, he occluded his mind. He let most of the anger wash out of him and he took control. "Mr. Potter, although you feel the need to suck up to every adult who can help your ego, we really do need to be getting back to Hogwarts."

Potter carelessly shelved a few books and picked two books from among his pile. Severus turned to leave, just as the boy muttered, "No, I think I should leave the sycophantism to the Slytherins."

"Maybe, but as I said, you do so to help your ego swell, whilst we Slytherins do so for ambition." Ha! That seemed to have stunned him into silence. Snape sneer triumphantly while they continued to the front.

Potter laid the two books on the counter and paid for them. He looked at Severus, ready to go. "And I suppose your assigned school books will just buy themselves and then magically find their way into your trunk to be brought to Hogwarts?" Severus asked.

Harry Potter smirked. "They're in my pocket. You know, a shrinking spell?" he asked cockily.

Severus forgot to occlude. "I didn't ask for your arrogance, Potter! You will show respect to your elders, whether your spoiling relatives taught you or not, because I will not have it at Hogwarts!" Snape all but shouted. The threat in his voice was clear, even though his tone was deceptively calm. He could see the boy shiver, and it was relaxing to know that the boy was afraid of something.

* * *

Harry was afraid. His _father_ was baiting him on purpose, and it hurt. The man was deliberately trying to anger him! He didn't know why, but he was deathly afraid of allowing Snape to know of his talent with music. For goodness sake, he even dared to use the word '_pansy'_! Of course he wasn't going to admit to loving music now!

It wasn't wrong for him to tell Snape that he didn't like classical music, because after all, it wasn't a complete lie. Harry's favorite period was the Baroque, when Vivaldi had lived and died. For some reason after saying that, Snape seemed to have been even angrier. Harry had no idea why.

Then he had made some comment about sucking up, and Harry didn't appreciate it at all. "No, I think I should leave the sycophantism to the Slytherins." He had opened his big mouth. Startlingly, Snape just retorted, possibly playfully! Harry started to consider the thought of telling the man that he had a son. He was playing with the idea. After all, his mother probably did something else so that Snape would eventually know. It was during these thoughts when Snape interrupted him with a sarcastic comment.

Harry smirked. "They're in my pocket. You know, a shrinking spell?" Ah yes, hadn't that been Gryffindor? Jumping into the mouth of the serpent, just because it gave a little hiss. And Harry got to see the fireworks. Snape must have been real angry.

He didn't so much shout, as he did hiss, like the snake Harry had compared to him earlier. The voice was quiet, but it held a warning. Quite a frightening warning at that. The words had an effect on him, and Harry decided not to get on the man's bad side any time in the near future.

Being on the man's bad side in the present was bad enough, but in the many corridors of Hogwarts, there would be no witnesses. Who could tell what would happen? Gulping, Harry ignored Snape for the rest of the trip, happy that he never grew up with this miserable vindictive man.


	8. Amabile Maestro

**A/N:** I am so happy! You all don't know how happy your reviews have made me! Keep reviewing and I promise to get chapters up as soon as I can! All reviews are welcome and appreciated. By the way, I've revised the previous chapters, like the grammar and the author notes and the disclaimers. Oh, I'm thinking about changing the names of the chapters to either English titles or to Italian titles. There are parts in this story where other languages are mentioned. I used and as references. A reviewer recently pointed out some mistakes, (thanks Wizzel!) and so I've tweaked it a bit. If there are any other problems, feel free to contact me.

**Disclaimer: **This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Musical Magic**

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

**Amabile Maestro**

Harry scolded himself once he arrived safely in Hogwarts. Snape caught him reading books about music. Then he had to comment like that.

Snape was the man playing the cello in his dream, right? So how could he declare Harry a pansy? Admittedly, the pitch of a violin was much higher than a cello, but that shouldn't make that much difference. What right did he have to call him a pansy, when Snape himself played?

What was up with Snape's reactions? Harry recalled the words he exchanged with the Potions Master.

The man was so confusing, changing his tone every time he responded. First, he was actually _teasing_, and then he was so acerbic. Harry shuddered as he remembered the cold tenor.

What could he do to take his mind off of Snape? Harry smiled. The Room of Requirement was still an option. He glanced at his books and took one of them with him. Really, as if Aunt Petunia appreciated music.

Harry found himself in the same room, with everything where it had been last. He was able to take his mind off of Snape for a while and relaxed in the serenity of the room. This time, he didn't play the song his mother wrote. Harry picked up the thin blue book with the word _MAZAS_ printed at the top, and _Etudes Speciales_ underneath it. He opened the cover and found the first page full of notes and dynamics. The tempo was _Largo_, but he had long forgotten what it meant…Harry's peripheral vision caught something appear on the shelf. Why, a book on musical terminology. How convenient.

_Largo—_(lärg) _Italian for "broad." A slow or stately tempo, 48-60 bpm._

That helped. Harry looked at the three metronomes and picked a blue and gray one. He started the beat slowly, so as to get used to the song before going faster. The dial on forty-eight, Harry listened to the sharp and precise beeps. Confident, he started. Instead of letting his mind wander, Harry paid attention to everything. The notes, the inflection, the phrasing…all of it was part of the song, and he didn't wish to miss anything. Soon, after playing it over three more times to get it roughly correct, Harry took a break.

He laid the violin case on the floor and the violin inside it. Harry closed it to make sure it would not be damaged in any way. Sighing, he lowered himself into the comfortable cream-colored cushions of the chair. When he was finally settled, a pensieve dropped onto the floor a little beyond his violin case. It was the Room of Requirement. Apparently, the room felt Harry _required_ a chance to see someone's memory. Shrugging, "What could go wrong?" he went headfirst into the silver liquid.

_There was Lily, he now knew, playing the violin while **Snape** bowed a cello. Oddly, his hair was messy and not oily at all. They were playing the song. And Harry was elated. Even though Snape was there, he could see his mother playing again. They continued playing, while Harry stared on. Snape smiled, and then kissed his mother on the cheek softly. The woman parted as she looked sadly up at him. They locked eyes, and the man spoke. Harry still couldn't hear him. He could see his mother cry. What could he have said to make her so sad? Lily ran into Snape's arms, and they stayed like that until Lily pulled away. It was obvious that she longed to stay in his embrace. _

_Snape carefully lifted a bundle of blankets, and lovingly handed them to the woman. Snape was holding him! His mother started crying even more. She hugged the blankets closer to herself, as Snape put the cello in his case. Snape stood up, his cello safely in its case. And his eyes were watering. Snape was crying! He raised a hand to move part of the blanket aside. Harry saw himself as a baby with tamed dark red hair, almost brown, and hazel eyes. He inspected the red locks, wondering why they were there._

_The not-so greasy git softly kissed the baby's forehead, and swiftly took flight. Snape had kissed **his **head. _

_The memory swirled and he saw his mum bend down over him and whisper, "You really look like him. Even though he doesn't know you're his child, Severus loves you. We all do." With that, she waved a stick, and the red hair and black eyes disappeared. Instead, there were green eyes and messy black hair. That was the only thing he heard from her mouth. Harry was confused. What just happened?_

_Harry knew what would come to pass in the next few moments. Another man with black hair and hazel eyes was shouting, but Harry couldn't hear once again. Harry knew what would happen now. Harry struggled to escape the memory, begging not to witness his mum's murder another time. He could feel himself being pulled into consciousness. Before he escaped, though, he could hear Lily humming the song. _

The first memory could only have been Snape's, his mum's, or his own. The second memory could have been two of those people. Harry sat back down in the chair as the pensieve disappeared.

"You know what? I think I need an explanation," Harry said loudly, not expecting anything. A large textbook landed in his lap. Harry realized he really loved this room. "Thanks."

_Advanced Charms_. Harry opened the front cover and looked at the inside cover. There was a list of names, the years they used it, and the condition it was in. Only one caught his eye. Lily Evans 77-78, Good. This was his mother's book. Harry sighed. Too bad he couldn't keep it with him all the time. Nothing in the Room of Requirement could be taken out. It was a real setback.

He looked at the table of contents, and he noticed some scribbling. It was just as illegible as the letter from his mum, so he supposed the writing belonged to her. 'Note: pg. 413!' Was the middle number a one or a seven? Better yet, was the 3 even a three? He shrugged and decided to check both 413 and 473 just in case. Harry flipped to page 413 and found it only about an advanced form of _Wingardium Leviosa._ What did that have to do with anything? He flipped to page 473, and still, he found nothing useful except _Evanesco_. Neither helped him. Harry shelved the book and decided to look through it at some other point in time.

He didn't know how long he sat there, contemplating his _father._ "Snape. Severus Snape and his son, Harry James Snape. I wonder if the prophecy still applies?" Harry laughed. He thought about everything, and he reflected on the dream. Well, memory, now that he thought about it. Breathing became a little harder. Sure, his mum's letter was a surprise when he first read it, but it's not like he believed it. For some reason, after watching Snape for part of the day, he could see resemblances, and that scared him more than anything else.

Harry had not looked in the mirror at all for the past month, hoping to forget his mother's letter. It helped, but only a bit. He still didn't know what he looked like, and he hoped he stayed the same. After all, the red hair and hazel eyes would definitely catch attention.

Harry shook his head. No, wait. If he was the son of _Snape_, then it would be very unlikely, if not impossible for him to have hazel eyes and red hair. After all the years spent learning magic, he had completely forgotten what he had learned in Biology. Harry was halfway through a sigh when another book dropped onto his lap. "This room is starting to be just a little like Hermione," Harry mumbled. It's like it knew everything. Harry grumbled and flipped through the book, searching for dominant and recessive genes.

"Here!" he exclaimed. According to the book, green eyes and red hair were all recessive, as were hazel eyes. Snape's features, like his dark eyes and black hair were all dominant. However, curly hair was dominant as opposed to straight hair like Snape's. Didn't his mum mention something about hair? Harry went so far as to identify the hairline. Both James and Lily had a normal hairline. He had never really looked at Snape's hairline, but it couldn't be important. Harry continued to read, and several things popped up, like whether you had a detached earlobe or not (which was dominant), or whether you could roll your tongue (recessive).

"Who really cares about this stuff?" he asked no one in particular. It went on about interlocking fingers, dimples, bent little fingers, double-jointed thumbs, freckles, and something called a PTC taste. All in all, it was too confusing for Harry to comprehend. Bored out of his mind, Harry snapped the book shut with a noticeable anger. He didn't understand much, if _anything_ of what he just read. He'd just have to ask Hermione.

Once again, there was something that was annoying him, meaning, his genes. Harry got off the comfortable chair and placed the violin case right back onto the armrests. He took out his violin once again and just played random notes, just for the heck of it.

He put the violin down when he just couldn't get any positive feelings from playing. He closed it up, zippers and all. Usually he could, but for some reason, the comfort that came with the music was absent. He closed the case, zippers and all. Harry was troubled, and nothing could solve it. He picked up the sheet music, intending to leave and go back to the dorms. Before he could reach the door, however, the words on the back caught his eye.

"Glamour? Glamour!" Harry said excitedly. The back still had the very first letter he read from his mum, and she had written about something called a glamour. He went to the shelf and located the charms textbook. Instead of looking at the table of contents with his mother's handwriting, he flipped to the back of the book, to the index. He ran a finger over the section marked with a 'G'. With a victorious shout, he located the page and turned to it. And there, was a page with the heading, "Glamours: for Looks and Crooks". Rolling his eyes, Harry noticed what page it was. 913. Not 413, 473 or 41 and something that resembled a three. He was really starting to hate his mother's handwriting. Ignoring the notes in the margins, Harry skimmed for glamours pertaining to his. And there it was.

He scanned the page and triumphantly shouted, "Yes!" It was _coloro externus corpus_, meaning to the color the outside of the body. It was only used to color outer features. There was another spell, _coloro penitus corpus_, but Harry didn't want to think about why anyone would want to color their innards. There was more messy writing beside the spells, and Harry could only make out a bit:

"_Only used for colring, spell only comes off by cster. For changing the shape of features, go to pge 916, last pge of glamour sectin."_

And he did. There, another spell was highlighted. _Muto forma_ was a spell solely for changing the shape of things. Harry tried to read the writing on that page, but found it much harder.

"_Lasts for f years unles cster reaplies spl. Aftr, cster dies, spl wears awy gradully. If nw hst is fund before f yers, sell will remin. PARASITIC."_

Harry finally understood it after analyzing the letters. Apparently, the _Muto forma_ charm was a parasite spell, and so it either fell away or took magic from someone else, usually the person the spell was applied to. If that was the case, after four years of the _Muto forma_, Harry's magic should have lessened considerably. Because he was before the age when magic was actually monitored, no one would have noticed. Harry read the rest of the passage, eyes widening as he continued.

"Because the _Muto forma _is a parasite spell, if the host is in danger and in dire need of his or her magic, the _Muto forma_ will temporarily reveal the original shape or form until it can go back to using the caster's magic. In the 1800s, there were cases in which children born out of wedlock were placed under the charm. In particular, one host reportedly battled a dark wizard, and the daughter, in the care of her nursemaid and her friends, morphed into her original form. Many people though the child a metamorphmagus, and her parents (biological) let everyone believe so until their daughter was hunted and killed."

Harry gulped. Well, that was interesting. Now, he really needed to have a mirror…and there was one, sitting innocently on the charms textbook. No matter how helpful the room was, it was starting to get on his nerves. Harry picked up the mirror and saw his reflection. He had messy black hair and bright green eyes, and he looked the same as always. Harry sighed in relief. He had yet to turn into a greasy git. Harry studied himself more, and new thoughts implanted themselves into his head.

Why did his mother think that he needed someone to replace the glamour before he turned seventeen? If she made that extra note about the _Muto Forma_, did she know that she was going to die? Did she know that the spell fed off of one's magic? Did that mean that the _Muto forma _spell had been feeding off his magic ever since he was three? Was there even a _Muto forma_ spell on him? What if the whole thing was an elaborate prank by Malfoy or Snape or Voldemort? Not that the evil dark lord was a prankster, but he was evil and creative enough to come up with something like this.

Harry shook his head and tried to get his thoughts straight. One, his mum had only put comments on those spells, which meant that Two, he had a _Muto forma_ and a C_oloro externus corpus. _Three, in the dream, he had dark red hair and hazel eyes. Four, at the moment, he had black hair and green eyes (which probably meant he needn't worry about the _Coloro externus corpus_). Five, the second spell was leeching his magic, and Six, he had an explanation for his looks but no evidence. Really, what could he use as evidence? In his dream, which may or may not be a reliable source, his mother waved her wand and his looks changed. Either she was reapplying the spell or taking it off. If what she wrote was true, then she was probably taking it off. Adding to that the words she said after she waved her wand, it was extremely obvious that his hair and eyes he had now were the ones he was born with. Now, he was at a dead end.

Either he kept his face until his seventeenth birthday, or he took it off now to see the damage. "If I take my face off now, I'd have to have someone put it back on." Harry paused. "That was the weirdest thing I've ever heard myself say."

"Well, I'm starting to talk to myself. Too bad there's no one else here to talk to about this…"

"Hem hem!" said a voice oddly reminiscent of Umbridge.

Harry spun around, not to see the big toad of a woman, but the portrait of Antonio Vivaldi. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

He gawked at the portrait a good while before haphazardly opening his mouth. "On the off-chance, er, you wouldn't happen to be, er, Antonio Lucio Vivaldi?" Harry asked.

"_Sì_, _sono io_." Harry stared at him blankly.

The portrait laughed. "Yes, I am. How did you know that?" the portrait asked politely.

"Your portrait, Sir, has your name on it," Harry answered.

Vivaldi fixed him with an evaluating stare. "_Sì_, but I don't believe my middle name was also painted here." He looked down toward his name. "See? I never really used my middle name."

"Oh," was all Harry could say. Him meeting Vivaldi was like a first year meeting Merlin.

"Why so shy? Before, you were actually _begging_ for someone to talk to." An awkward silence fell upon them, both staring at the other until Antonio spoke again. "You remind me of someone…"

Curious, Harry asked, "who?"

"I remember! A young man once frequented a room I stayed in, in the lower half of the castle. He would often visit me, along with his pretty young _amica_,"he said, switching to Italian for the single word.

"Amica?" Harry asked.

Vivaldi winked. "Girlfriend."

Harry paused. Instead of thinking of the implications of the boy and his girlfriend, he asked, "How did you learn to speak English?"

"_Il_ _giovinetto_," he started, but paused at Harry's hopeless look. "You don't know Italian, do you? Well, _Il_ _giovinetto,_ the young boy, taught me. He knew quite a bit of many languages. A well-rounded lad, except when it came to sports. His _amica_ was very kind. Had hair like mine," he chuckled.

Harry's thoughts jumped back to the boy and his girlfriend. He gulped. "She er, had _red _hair?" Harry remembered that at Vivaldi's ordination into the priesthood, he had been nicknamed _Il prete rosso_, meaning the red-haired priest.

"_Sì_, yes." He grinned and took off the white hair, which turned out to be a powdered wig to reveal messy bright red hair. He continued, "I called her _Focosina_. And her _amico_, I called _Gatto_."

"May I ask why?" Harry tentatively asked. He was afraid to hear the answer, but he had to know.

Antonio grinned. "Her name, in Italian, was _Giglio, _but it was too masculine for her. I changed it to _Focosina _at her urging. I could not translate her _amico's_" he paused once again. "Boyfriend's name, so I named him something else that began with a 'G'. Well, I named _Gatto_ before I changed _Focosina's_."

Harry was tired of avoiding the answer, and he really had to know. "What were their real names?"

"_Il ragazza_ was named Lily. The other was Severus, but he rather liked it when I called him _Gatto_."

"So, they both played _strumenti musicali_? Musical instruments?" Harry asked, drawing upon the bit of Italian in his musical books.

Vivaldi broke into a wider grin. "_Meraviglioso_! Wonderful! You do know a bit of Italian! Focosina played the violin, and Gatto played the cello. They were marvelous. They also composed a piece. In fact, it was the very song you played."

"Well…_Focosina_ was_ m_y mother," Harry answered.

"'_La mia madre!'" _Antonio repeated in Italian. He didn't let Harry answer before asking a question._ "_Was? Why, she is not gone, is she?" Antonio asked, eyes widening with worry.

"'_La mia madre' _died about fifteen years ago," Harry said, taking in the sad visage of the painting.

"And what of _Gatto_? Surely, your father is still alive?" Antonio asked solemnly.

"_Father?_" Harry sputtered. "Well, my mum didn't marry Gatto, but he's still alive. She married someone else. James Potter. Have you heard of him?"

"_Il ragazzo ingannevole?_ The deceptive boy? I remember him. _Focosina_ would always complain about him. So would _Gatto_. By their last year, I think they had all become friends."

Harry raised an eyebrow at Antonio's wording. "Do you have a name for everyone?"

"_Sì, _only for those of whom _Focosina _and _Gatto_ spoke and the staff. Like Professor Dumbledore; he is _il sciocco manipolativo_. The manipulative fool. Minerva is _leonessa rigorosa, _strict lioness. Flitwick is _felice_, happy. Sprout was _fiore felice, _happy flower. Hooch is _occhio del astore,_ hawk's eye. Sinistra is _stella_, star. Vector is _numeri_. Let's see…a few new names came up over the years, and I've given each a name. Trelawny is _frode, _fraud—" Harry laughed at that one.

"There was a boy a few years ahead of them. I called him _il furetto_. I didn't like him. He almost shared my name; he was Lucius. I called him ferret, and _Focosina _and _Gatto_ agreed. Another boy, Peter, was nothing like a rock, which is what his name meant. So I only called him _vigliacco, _coward. His friend, Lupin, was called _lupo mannaro_, werewolf. He used to be called _pecoraio, _shepherd, but _Gatto_ insisted that it was inappropriate for him. I watched the boy. He was indeed a shepherd, and I have yet to learn why _Gatto_ was insistent upon _lupo mannaro_. The last! _Gatto _never learned to get along with him! His real name was S—"

Harry interrupted before Antonio could finish listing the Marauders. "Er, sorry. I've got to leave. I have just a bit of homework to tweak before school starts." Harry walked toward the door after picking the sheet music up.

"Wait! You must visit me, sometime! Bring _Gatto_, if you could!" Antonio said with a wave of his hand. Harry half-waved back and almost closed the door to the Room of Requirement. Just before leaving, Harry had a thought. "If I may ask, where are you whenever you're not in this room?" he asked.

"I'm usually in a room in the dungeons. Try to visit me there too! To get into the room, you have to go through quite a lot of doors. One way is really long, but easier for you to access. You go to the astronomy tower, and there's a brick with my initials on it. Say the word '_Dissendium_' and tap the brick. Hopefully, the bricks will rearrange themselves to make a passageway for you. Then it's a long trek down to the dungeons. There'll be many doors to get out through, but the one you want is the second to last. Of course, that's more time-consuming than just going into this room, isn't it? There's another one—oh never mind. Just go to this room, and I'll make sure to be here."

Harry grinned in return. "Grazie!" He left the room feeling happier. With his music in his hands, he walked back to the Gryffindor dorms. He smiled happily as he plopped onto his bed. He could learn so much from Antonio—he had to see the man again soon. As long as the conversations didn't stray toward Sirius or Peter, it would be fun to chat with Antonio.

* * *

Severus was preparing the labs for the little cretins for the upcoming year. No doubt, he'd have to put impenetrable potions on the floor and walls. Probably the ceiling as well. One could wonder how the first years manage to create so many different destructive potions when the ingredients, in theory, shouldn't even harm parchment

He finished applying the last bit of potion and walked into his private laboratory. He sank into his chair. "I'm not ready for this year. No, I'm not," he muttered to himself. He sat there for what seemed like ages, thinking about this and that, and how this and that was ruining his life. Eventually, his thoughts strayed to his and Lily's song.

"We never got around to naming our song, did we, Focosina?" he asked out loud, looking to his ceiling as if Lily was looking down to him. When was the last time he called Lily 'Focosina'? "Since I'm already talking to myself, I must not have anything to do." Once again, his eyes raked over the closet to the side of his room. He was so tempted to just go to that closet, rip the door open, and…Severus shook his head. It was a waste thinking about that.

His hands were twitching to open that door. It was just a door. What harm could come from a door? Severus glared at the closet, daring it to object. "That's it. I'm settling this once and for all." He marched to the door and placed a pale hand on the handle.

Severus Snape was not a timid man. He was not afraid of confrontation. He was a proud, refined, forward man who was notafraid of confrontation. At least, that's what he kept telling himself. His hand fell from the doorknob, and he scolded himself verbally.

"There is nothing, absolutely nothing, I should be afraid of. Why do I need to open it anyway? It's just a door. That door…it…well, it doesn't have to be opened today. I can open it any time I want. Yes, and I—I have things to do, cauldrons to clean, potions to make. I have no time for silly little doors," he tried convincing himself. Nevertheless, the more he talked, the more daunting the door seemed to be. It was taunting him, daring him to open the closet, reveal what was inside. With the closet looming over him, Severus left the room to stalk the corridors of the school.

"I'll open it some other time," he whispered to himself as his words echoed against the stone walls of the dungeons. Severus Snape was definitely _not_ afraid of confrontation.


	9. Untitled

**A/N: **I hope you like the chapter. I even stayed up till 5 AM just writing it the first time, not to mention the editing and adding I had to do. Please, please, review. Important note: I've changed Lily's nickname, Giglio, to a more feminine name, Focosina. A reviewer alerted to me the fact that Giglio was too masculine and suggested the name Focosina. Everybody give your props to Wizzel. All reviews are welcome and appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Musical Magic**

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

**Untitled**

Harry sat on a bench in Platform 9¾. He had had the choice of waiting in the school till everybody came, but he told Dumbledore that he'd rather arrive with everyone else. He didn't know that he'd have to take Hogwarts Express alone to get there. After a long ride in an empty train, Harry jumped off to look for his friends. Once again, he found what he didn't expect. No one was there yet. Not one person. Even the woman who pushed the trolley wasn't there.

The emptiness, at first, made him nervous. It was like looking into a bleak future where people were long dead and Hogwarts was shut down. He shook his head forcefully to rid himself of the image of a platform covered with dust and cobwebs and a rotten skeleton of Hermione or Ron. He took a deep breath. The platform wasn't all bad.

Harry sighed loudly. It echoed around, and he smiled. "Echo!" he yelled.

"Echo! Echo! Echo. Echo…" The walls shouted back. His grin increased. He yelled a few more things, just to listen to his voice reverberate. Eventually, he grew bored and settled for whistling his mother's song. The notes bounced around the Platform happily. Whenever the song ended, he started it again. Soon enough, someone was tapping his shoulder.

"Harry? Harry!" Harry came back to reality and looked up. Hermione was looking at him with concerned eyes and Ron was grinning behind her. Ginny was standing beside him, her face in a perfect imitation of Hermione's.

"Ron! Hermione! Ginny!" Harry stood up and looked around the platform. It was still quite empty, and only his friends, their families, and a few others were there. "You guys are really early!"

"When Dumbledore owled us at Headquarters, we decided to come earlier than usual," Hermione told him. She smiled at him. "Oh Harry, we've missed you!" With that, she hugged him fiercely.

Harry looked to Ron for the extreme greeting. He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "She's been worrying about you, mate." Ron and Hermione waved goodbye to their parents and turned to the Hogwarts Express. They started walking to the train, talking the entire time.

* * *

Severus sat at his desk, steeling himself for the upcoming students. He stared at the door he hadn't opened. Really, he had ignored it for years. Why would it want to haunt him now? He reached out for the knob but retracted at the last second.

"When the students get here. I'll open it. I will."

* * *

Empty compartments filled the train, and it was easier than usual to find one. After all, they were the only ones there other than the few who were already seated.

They conversed lightly of inconsequential things and joked around. Eventually, Luna and Neville joined them in their compartment. The two added to the conversations, but Luna was more interested in the legendary Squonk, otherwise known as the Lachrimacorpus dissolvens. Meanwhile, Hermione and Ron were arguing about critical issues.

"Really, it's a big setback. He uses them for his passwords!" Hermione almost shouted.

"It's not a setback for us. It gives us the advantage. Who knows how many times we've had to get into his office and we didn't know the password?" Ron argued.

Hermione, in the heat of debate, leaned forward. "If a fifth year—"

"We're sixth years, now," Harry interjected, just to see how Hermione would react.

Hermione merely rolled her eyes and continued. "If a Hogwarts student can guess his passwords, what would stop a Death Eater?" It was obvious to her.

"I'd think the _wards_ would stop a Death Eater," Ron countered pathetically. He was quickly losing his ground.

"The wards didn't stop Quirrel or Moody," Neville added quietly to prove Hermione's point.

Ron grinned triumphantly. "But even if Dumbledore had a password like floccinaucinihilipilification instead of Cockroach Clusters or something, they would have access to his office because they would be teachers." Oddly, he didn't stumble once on the complicated word.

Luna paused in her reading and looked up. "Where did you ever hear a word like that?"

"There was this list of long words, and it looked interesting. It had this funny word, hippopoto, uh, monstrosesquipedaliophobia, that meant a**—"**

"Fear of long words. It one of the more irritating words. Not because it's the complete opposite of concise, but because its etymology is so erroneous and has so many solecisms," Hermione said with a sly grin and cast a sideways look at Ron to see if he understood any of what she just said.

Ron looked to Harry for assistance and tried to decipher what a few of her words meant. Harry shrugged in response and filed away the amusing memory of Ron's helplessness.

While Ron realized what she said, Malfoy made an unwelcome appearance.

"Well, if it isn't Potter and his merry band of misfits," he sneered. Harry almost laughed. It seemed like Malfoy tried to take lessons from Snape on how to sneer. Except that he learned just as much about sneering as Harry did about Occlumency. Harry winced. Better to stay away from that train of thought.

Malfoy seemed to notice the fleeting grimace on the Boy-Who-Lived's face, and smirked. "You don't like it? I think it fits. Potter and his merry band of misfits. It suits you all, doesn't it? There's Scarface, the nerd, the unfortunately ugly Weasleys, because the name in itself is an insult, and who else? Of course, there's the disappointment to pureblood kind, _Longbottom_, and the crazy loon, _Lovegood_."

His speech was considerably longer than usual, mostly because Ron had yet to react. Of course, stalling and making him even angrier was probably worse than just striking out before the words even came. Finally, Ron came to his senses and punched Malfoy.

"Took you long enough," Ginny said uncharacteristically. It seemed she had been fed up with it. Her wand was out, as was everybody else's. They had opted to use something a bit more civilized that brute force. It paid off. Malfoy ran off with five different curses plaguing him, including Ginny's fearsome Bat Bogey Hex and an unheard of curse from Luna.

As soon as he was gone, the dispute between the pros and cons of Dumbledore's candy fetish was struck up again.

Harry was smiling brilliantly as he got off the train. His smile dropped a bit when he saw the thestrals. They only reminded him of the dead. And in turn, the image of a forever deserted platform crept its way into his mind. He shook it off with a deep breath. They got into a carriage and they continued their conversations. Only once, right before they got out, did someone inquire about his well-being. Ron turned to Harry once most of them were out of the carriage. He must have waited till the last moment to ask. Quietly, he asked, "Have you had any nightmares or visions?"

Harry considered the question. Truthfully, he hadn't. The visions had come almost every night until he had the dream of his mother and the man playing the cello. "No. They stopped around the time when I, er, got to Hogwarts." It was about right. He had the dream close to his birthday, so it wasn't a lie.

Ron accepted it. "Okay. I think Hermione would like to talk about it later. You know how she is." Harry sighed. Yes, he knew how Hermione was. He wouldn't begrudge her for caring. He got out of the carriage, Ron in tow.

* * *

A vial crashed against the closet door as Severus glared at it. The students were there, but he still didn't want to open the door. He couldn't understand why he was so afraid to open it. It was just a door.

"Just a door. Well, I must be going to the Start of the Year Feast, so I can't open it now, can I? When I get back. Yes, when I get back."

* * *

The rest of the day sped past him. There were seven new Gryffindors, but Harry didn't know any of their names. Before he knew it, he was lying in his bed with the lights out and his eyes open. All around him, he heard either the snores or the light breathing of the other boys in his dormitory. He couldn't fall asleep.

Harry got out of his bed quietly, and made sure that everyone was truly asleep. His bed was spelled to look like he was in it and after, his wand was safely tucked into his back pocket. He opened his trunk and took out his invisibility cloak. He didn't close it; he'd probably be back soon enough, and if he needed to quickly hide evidence once he got back, the trunk would be waiting for the cloak. With that decided, he set out to the Room of Requirement. In no time, he was in the Room of Requirement, chatting with Vivaldi.

He was sitting in the wooden chair with cream armrests and cushions and the violin was safely under the chair. Antonio was leisurely and absentmindedly plucking random notes on his violin.

"No, no. It is pronounced _piccolo. _Like _il_ _strumenti musicali_," Antonio said. Harry repeated the word correctly, to Antonio's pleasure. "Wonderful! Now, _pozzo_. It means sink. Like a fountain, but not a fountain because a fountain is something else."

"_Pozzo_," Harry said, with an Italian accent. Antonio clapped his hands happily.

"There! Later, we will do more," Antonio said, smiling. They had started with P's, because for some reason, Antonio didn't feel like starting with A. All he did was call out random words from his memory and tell Harry to repeat it with the correct inflection and accent. Harry did not disappoint. He did well, considering that they just _happened_ to start talking about languages.

Antonio put his violin on his table in the portrait. He had the tendency to get overexcited and wave his arms around to express his ideas. "What languages do you know other than Italian and English?" Harry asked curiously.

Antonio's smile fell a bit. "Well, I was planning on going to Vienna, Austria. I learned quite a bit of German."

Harry nodded for him to continue. "That's all, really. The king I was going to work for died, and my reputation was, how do you say it, _shot_. It was shot like _un cervo dell'albino_." Antonio sighed sadly.

Harry started at the simile. "Erm, what?"

Antonio sighed heavily. "Literally, a red deer of albino. I don't know. Ignore what I just said." He brightened. "Let us speak of something…_più felice._"

Harry cocked his head to the side. "Er, happier?"

Once again, Antonio was in full red-headed happiness mode. "_Sì! _And I didn't even have to teach it to you!" Harry was glad that Antonio wasn't down anymore. It had been worrying when the priest suddenly stopped smiling. Harry quickly learned that Antonio was a lively composer who loved teaching and composing but who hated having to serve mass. When asked why, Antonio answered, "It's not as if I don't like _mia Dio_. I do like him. But the music is so much sweeter when you're with the choir and the heavenly notes float right through you." It had been such a passionate answer, that Harry was left speechless.

In the present, Antonio was asking him about his parents. "So, _Focosina_ married someone other than _Gatto_? I'm amazed! Why?"

Harry nervously played with the hem of his shirt as he answered, "Well, it's sort of complicated."

Antonio gave him an evaluating stare. "You look so much like _Gatto_, it's hard to imagine that you're the son of _Il ragazzo ingannevole. _I must find a shorter name for him. I cannot keep calling your father _Il ragazzo ingannevole._"

His father? It was one thing, letting everyone continue his or her life believing something false, but it was another thing to openly lie. Harry gulped. "Antonio, you must promise not to tell. Not even Dumbledore…" he started. If Vivaldi really knew his parents that well, he could be trusted. Hopefully. In response, Antonio leaned forward, though not leaving his portrait.

"I swear, upon my honor as a priest and composer," he said solemnly. Harry nodded.

"Well, technically, Focosinawas married to James. But erm, she didn't marry out of love. She married out of desperation. Gatto is my biological father," he said. It was the first time he voiced it out loud, and suddenly, it hit him. Snape was his father, and he could do nothing. He definitely couldn't tell Snape, and he couldn't prevent the changes he would go through in a year.

Antonio surprised him by smiling. "I knew _Focosina_ could only love one. Do people know?"

Harry shook his head despondently. He couldn't tell anyone. He couldn't let anyone know. If he told anyone, their views would change and they'd probably tell Snape or Dumbledore. And Dumbledore would never pass up the chance to ruin his life even more.

"Then come talk to me whenever you like. No doubt you need someone to confide in," Antonio said with a tone of finality. Harry looked up with gratitude.

"_Grazie_," Harry answered. Antonio nodded his head instead of saying anything.

Harry thought deeply about his parents, birth and adopted. He kept thinking, and voiced a question he'd wanted to ask the first day he met the composer. "Why do you call Snape _Gatto_?"

"It fits, no?" he said, avoiding the reason why.

"No, I mean, why Gatto instead of something like _Severo_?" Harry reiterated.

Antonio nervously laughed. "An odd story, so bear with me, yes?" At Harry's nod of affirmation, he continued, "Technically, _Focosina _came up with it. Before _Focosina_ and I started calling him _Gatto, _I always called him by his last name. Snape. _Focosina _called him Severus, and I called him Snape until she started calling him _Gatto. _Your mother came alone one day and brought in a beautiful black kitten. It was the cutest little cat. She called it _Gatto_, Italian for cat. For some reason, she kept on calling Severus _Gatto _as well, and it stuck. Your adopted father, I still haven't thought up a different name yet, pranked him, and he walked into this room with black cat ears and a tail. He has a picture of it somewhere. You know, I've never seen Severus and her cat in the same room, though. He must not have liked it."

"Wow. My mum had a cat," Harry said to himself.

"Yes. It was the cutest little thing. Back then, it was a kitten, but I think it would be a cat by now," Antonio added fondly.

"If it was that long ago, wouldn't the cat be er, dead?" Harry asked with as much tact as a bull elephant.

"Maybe."

"Oh."

"Well, on a lighter note, how is your magic?" Antonio asked cheerily, obviously trying to change the subject.

Harry welcomed the change, but didn't understand the question. "Excuse me?" Harry asked, not knowing how he could rate his magic.

Antonio's dizzying smile came back full force. "_La vostra magia!_ You have not noticed the change in _your magic_?"

Harry looked at him with questioning eyes. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Antonio." He couldn't possibly be referring to the spells his mother used on him as a child, could he? Did he know?

"You don't know? Well, I guess that information has been lost over the years, but _Gatto _seemed to know what I was speaking of when I first mentioned it. You see—" Vivaldi stopped short. His eyes shifted around the room, suddenly looking for something. He put his index finger to his lips in a silent instruction to be quiet.

Harry didn't understand the silence until he heard a knock. And another knock. More knocks followed, quick and erratic. His eyes widened. Immediately, the room changed itself into the exact room they used last year for the D.A. Everything in the room shifted, and Harry didn't have enough time to see everything that changed. The chair he had been sitting in turned into a huge armchair and a book dropped into his lap. He had no time to see what the cover was when the door opened and recognized who opened it.

* * *

Severus tossed and turned in his bed. For some reason, he found it hard to sleep. Usually, he'd be patrolling the halls, looking for wayward Gryffindors. Tonight, he felt disoriented and with a dreamless sleep potion, went off to bed. Much to his annoyance, he just couldn't sleep. He couldn't get his mind off the door to that closet, and he still convinced himself not to open it. Time passed him by, and when he checked his clocks the fifth time, one said 1:00 A.M. and the other said "Too early to still be awake in bed, but just the right time to catch a student roaming the halls."

Even though he was tired, Severus dressed, knowing that if he was not yet sleeping then he wouldn't get any sleep at all. With his billowing black robes, he set out to stalk the darkened corridors of Hogwarts.

Once out of his rooms, he glanced around quickly and transformed. In the stead of a menacing potions master with flowing black robes, a black cat stood. With graceful steps, the cat padded his way toward the dormitories of the other houses. His midnight black fur made him one with the shadows and darkness. The soft pads on his feet did not betray his location as his boots might have. And his eyes, although the same inky black as before, were sharper. The only thing that could be said unusual of the cat was its abnormally large nose. It wasn't a dog's, per se, but it could certainly have been smaller.

He walked around and heard the echoing sound of trainers. Severus smirked as only an evil cat could and watched as a student turned the corner. It was a student, definitely, and a muggleborn or half-blood by the look and sound of it. The shoes were definitely muggle. The student was quickly walking, but trying hard not to make a sound.

Severus could see that the student was shaking. He silently walked behind the student and changed back to his human form. "And tell me, what teacher deemed you worthy to let you out in the middle of the night a_lone_?" he asked in his voice reserved for misbehaving students.

The student jumped and turned around in one motion, and ended up losing balance. Severus looked at the student and concluded that it was one of the first years from a house other than Slytherin. "I-I was er, just going to go to the er, infirmary!" she said desperately.

Severus narrowed his eyes. "Why isn't your Head of House with you?"

"I didn't know you needed Professor Sprout to go to the infirmary," she answered unsteadily.

"Very well then. I shall escort you to the Hospital Wing, to make sure you take no detours," he said. With a sneer perfected by years of practice, he added, "And ten points from Hufflepuff."

Severus left her in the care of Poppy. Turned out, she did have a valid reason for going to the Hospital Wing. Madame Pomphrey diagnosed it as a case of homesickness and asked that Severus give the points back. She knew he would never give points back unless the student was Slytherin, and she was right. After the Hospital Wing, Severus changed into his animagus form and continued to prowl the hallways. Severus pouted. It was now around three A.M., and he hadn't found any other students roaming the hallways. It was odd, because usually he'd find a few of the seventh or sixth years having a party in some abandoned classroom drinking beer or firewhiskey on the first night back.

As quiet as always, he stalked back to his rooms and regained his human shape. He muttered, "Scientia est potentia," as callously as he could. The portrait to his rooms opened his eyes and asked, "Which means?"

Severus rolled his eyes. "Knowledge is power." The portrait nodded and let him through. Once in his rooms, Severus glared at the back of the portrait. Really, the man was quite annoying. Severus's passwords had always been in Latin, and the old man kept asking him what each meant. Did it really matter? Severus thought fondly of one password he used quite often. _'Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem' _was the perfect password because it was long and easy to remember (for him). It meant, 'In the good old days, children like you were left to perish on windswept crags.' Dumbledore had had a problem with it the first few days, but then he made a rule that passwords over ten words long were not allowed. He also outlawed any passwords implying anything inappropriate for a school for children. With that rule, a few of his favorites phrases were booted out.

He really had nothing to do. It was half past three, but he couldn't go to sleep and he didn't feel like watching the corridors for disobedient children. Severus settled for preparing for the school day and sat down at his desk in his private laboratory. He filed papers mindlessly and replied to letters from people he didn't care to know. His thoughts drifted, and his eyes rested on the door. He still had yet to open it.

The door was _there_. What was so hard about opening it? Hardening his resolve, he strode to the door and knocked on it. "Why am I knocking?" he asked himself. For good measure, and because he was still stalling, he knock two more times.

"No more reason to keep waiting," he said out loud to nobody. His hand shakily rested on the brass doorknob. With a determined nod to himself, he pulled the knob to himself and the door effortlessly slid open.

From within, a voice asked, "Snape?"


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **I am soooooooooooooooo sorry that I have not updated in forever! I have been to very busy, and I have had a bit of writer's block. I knew what was going to happen in the beginning of this chapter, when I only had three or so pages, I need to add some more, and then school got harder, and I swear I didn't mean to leave this for so long. I decided to get this up before midterms start. Hey, at least I updated again. All reviews are welcome and appreciated. Once again, I have no title. Once Christmas break starts, I'll probably edit everything. By the way, if you find any grammatical errors (which I am quite sure you will), feel free to point them out to me. Thanks!

**Disclaimer: **This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

Written by Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

_Harry didn't understand the silence until he heard a knock. And another knock. More knocks followed, quick and erratic. His eyes widened. Immediately, the room changed itself into the exact room they used last year for the D.A. Everything in the room shifted, and Harry didn't have enough time to see everything that changed. The chair he had been sitting in turned into a huge armchair and a book dropped into his lap. He had no time to see what the cover was when the door opened and recognized who opened it._

**Untitled**

As the room shifted and changed, a book dropped into Harry's lap. He identified the face as soon as it appeared. The head stuck itself through the doorway even more and Harry pretended to be busily engrossed in the book. In doing so, he read a few sentences. "Rule 50: To avoid suspicion when caught, act suspicious about something of a lesser degree". Harry raised his eyebrows questioningly but followed it anyway. He snapped the book shut and pretended to try to hide it behind his back when two people stepped in.

"Harry Potter! What are you hiding behind your back!" the female voice yelled once the door was closed. The other person cringed a bit at the first's volume, but he seemed to want to shout the same thing.

Harry sheepishly pulled out the book and saw the title morph into something else. The bushy-haired girl swiped it up and read aloud, "Hogwarts, 1977-78." At that, she paused and looked down at Harry. The change surprised him, but by averting his face away from hers, he could pretend to be hurt or embarrassed and hide any emotions his face might reveal. His other friend slowly walked to them and gently took the book from Hermione's hands. Harry stood up to see what he was doing. Ron flipped to a random page in the middle of the book where a picture had two people waving to them. One had fiery red hair and real-looking fox ears, and the other had a mask on. The one with the mask had messy black hair, so Ron and Hermione both concluded that it was none other than Lily and James. Ron read the subtitle aloud for Hermione and Harry. "Hallowe'en, '77" He flipped the page to reveal the same two people, except they were kissing. That subtitle read, "The Lovebirds' First Public Kiss." Black hair hid the actual kiss, but they could clearly see Lily's eyes sparkling with happiness. The one with the black hair pulled back, but did not turn around. Lily pushed the boy aside and must have pushed the person holding the camera, because the picture went black. In an instant, the picture was back the way it was before, and the scene replayed itself.

Ron laid the book down on the vacated chair and looked Harry in the eye. "You left around midnight, and hadn't come back."

Pulling off a remorseful face was not that hard, because he was feeling slightly guilty for having worried his best friends. "How did you find me?"

Hermione smiled slyly. "You must have been in a rush, because your trunk was still open. We, er, got the Marauder's Map out," she said, taking out the worn parchment. Harry cursed his skewed foresight.

He chuckled and picked up the yearbook. "Yes, well, I guess we should be going now, hm?" Ron nodded, and watched as Harry unhurriedly ran his fingers down the cover of the book.

Hermione was already outside the Room of Requirement when Ron turned around and quietly said, "If you wanted to see that, you could've borrowed one of our yearbooks."

Harry was surprised. "Why would you have one? None of your brothers would be old enough for Hogwarts in 1977." He asked, just as quietly.

With a smile, Ron answered, "I had a cousin who went there that year. He was a Prewett." He seemed to want to drop it, so Harry made no other remarks.

They walked in silence, all three almost completely hidden by the invisibility cloak. Ron's ankles were peeking out, but not by much. The halls were quiet in the school, and they could hear nothing but the soft taps of their shoes on the stones beneath them. They continued until they reached the dormitories and told the weary portrait the password. Ron and Harry walked up to the boys' rooms and Hermione to her own.

As Harry lay on his bed, he could not help but remember the picture of his mother. In previous years, he would have just smiled and continued on to the next picture. Now, he could not help but wonder whether the messy-haired seventh year was his father or James Potter.

* * *

Severus's hand shakily rested on the brass doorknob. With a determined nod to himself, he pulled the knob to himself and the door effortlessly slid open.

The walls were black. There were only two things of importance in the room. One was black cello case in the corner, and other was the person looking straight at him.

From within, a voice asked, "Snape?"

Severus was taken aback by the voice. He expected it, but it was a surprise all the same. Severus was threatened to smile at the familiar voice. "Snape? When was the last time you called me that?"

"Sono spiacente, Gato!" the voice said sheepishly. "You have not visited me in what seems like a whole decade!" He then sternly reprimanded the grown man.

"_Spiacente_, Antonio," Severus said. "I was merely caught up with…things." Severus looked back to the painting. He suddenly felt very guilty for leaving him alone in such a small room with no communication for over ten years.

Antonio sniffed in disdain. "Yes, I've heard about them."

"From whom?" Severus asked. To whom had Antonio been talking? Who had the gall to break into his office, and then into his closet?

"Not telling!" Antonio laughed. The composer reminded Severus of a giddy first year. He could already feel a headache coming on.

Severus enlarged the closet to make it a sizeable room, and then conjured his usual wooden chair with cream-colored cushions. In his Hogwarts years, those had been the chairs Lily conjured. She said her old violin teacher had the same chairs in his living room. He elegantly sat down, keeping his eyes trained on the happy composer all the while.

"Why aren't you telling? Are you protecting someone? Antonio, I need to know if anyone has been through my office," Severus said seriously.

Antonio grew serious as well. "You could say I am protecting someone. But it's none of your business."

Snape was exasperated. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"The person I've been seeing has not been through your office. I know, for sure, that this person is finding me through another room. I am not sure how, but it's amazing!" Antonio said excitedly.

"Indeed?" Severus said dryly. Antonio nodded enthusiastically.

"What can you tell me about this person?" Severus asked, playing along with the hyperactive composer.

"Oh, this person is great!" Antonio said with sparkling eyes and a cheery voice, "This person has the most amazing talent, and has an affinity for Italian. He picks up the words, just like that!" Antonio said, emphasizing the last word with a snap of his fingers.

Whether he knew it or not, Antonio just revealed that this certain person was a 'he'. Severus thought long and hard about everyone in the castle. It could be anyone.

"I suppose you will not just give me 'this person's' name?" Severus asked with a single raised eyebrow.

Antonio shook his head vigorously. "Of course not! He told me not to tell anyone," Antonio said with a decided nod.

Severus sighed and pretended to give in. He would have to keep a sharp eye out for whoever was visiting Antonio, because as ingenious as he was, Antonio tended to talk a lot. If Antonio told anyone else about either himself or Lily, it would mean serious trouble.

Antonio looked at him. "Severus, how about you cheer up? There is still that music. I have not heard it in quite a while…" Antonio let the sentence hang, intending for Severus to interpret his words correctly.

"Why not?" Severus asked both himself and Vivaldi. He wordlessly conjured a music stand, and then walked over to the corner in which a big black case rested. Quietly, he pulled out the instrument. He noted the lack of varnish and the dust resting on the wood. The bow had no rosin, and it looked like the hairs were about to fall off.

"You let it go into a bad condition," Antonio noted with a displeased voice.

Severus inspected the bow and the instrument. It was not too horrible. "I guess I did. These things are easily fixed." With two different wand strokes, the bow hair was replaced and rosined. He looked at the cello with a critical eye.

"Don't use your magic to varnish the cello, Gatto. You must do that by hand," Antonio warned him. Severus nodded. In his previous years with Antonio, he would always tell Severus to do most of the things by hand, because musicians played their instruments with their hands, not with magic. Lily had agreed readily, but Severus remembered being stubborn about not using magic.

"Then I shall do it later. I suppose you'll want me to tune by hand as well?" Severus asked. Antonio nodded. Severus silently agreed. Tuning an instrument with magic was just asking for a string to pop or the bridge to become crooked. "Magical A?" Severus asked as well.

Antonio seemed to consider the two words and then said, "I guess so. Your voice might be good, but it is not as accurate as you need it to be in order to tune to a vocal A. And I know you have no other options."

Severus cast a spell, and the single note rung through the small room. Using it, he tuned the cello. The horrible out-of-tune screeches did not surprise him. After all, so many years with the same strings in an old closet in a dungeon would do that to a cello. Severus started with a scale, and then moved on to etudes and exercises, just to get his fingers relaxed on the cello. He was a little annoyed that his right hand would not cooperate with him. His hand was either too tight or in the wrong position. His left hand did not want to shift into the higher positions or land on the right notes. Overall, he was disappointed with himself.

He glanced at Antonio and saw the self-righteous look in his eyes. "That is why most serious musicians practice every day," Antonio said.

Severus looked down at his cello. "I guess it has been too long."

"It might have been too long, but it is never too late. Start practicing every day, and it will feel natural to you again," Antonio advised. Severus nodded, but put the cello away.

"I will later. I believe I have brats to teach today, and I am tired."

Antonio let him go, saying a short goodbye. All he needed was to get Gatto and his son in the same room…

* * *

The next day was the first day of the classes at Hogwarts. At breakfast, Harry realized that he still did not know the password. Although Hermione had to whisper it to the Fat Lady when they arrived at Gryffindor Tower, he did not remember it. He thought it might have begun with an 'A'. "What's the password?" Harry asked Hermione with confusion the next morning.

"Aquacarro," she said, chuckling a bit.

"So that's water, um, carry? To carry water?" he asked.

"It's an inside joke with the first years," another boy piped up.

"So why's it our password?" Harry asked exasperatedly.

A few of his fellow classmates laughed. Sitting at the breakfast table the next day, he felt energized rather than tired like one would expect.

"There's a really odd first year. A muggleborn and he's obsessed with that muggle band, the Beatles," Seamus added. Other students nodded to agree with him.

Dean commented, "And ever since he got here, he's been singing this Latin phrase over and over."

"What was it?" Ron asked,

Lavender giggled. "It's the most childish muggle thing ever!" she said in a way that she should have patented.

"Are you planning to tell me?" Harry asked, half-curious and half annoyed.

Another student giggled and starting humming the tune to a Beatle song. Soon others joined in, including a few from other houses. Harry recognized it and raised an eyebrow. "What do yellow submarines have to do with 'aquacarro'?"

Hermione smiled as she said, "Habitamus in flavo aquacarro." Harry did not understand, so Ron sang the phrase to the tune of the first line of the refrain.

"We all live in a yellow submarine?" Harry asked. He supposed 'habitamus' meant live, since it sounded like habituate or habitat. However, he did not understand how 'yellow submarine' translated into 'flavo aquacarro'.

"That's what the kid said. Honestly, I have no idea where the 'flavo' comes from, because the word I would have used is 'crocus' rather than flavus. I suppose whoever first said that made up a word for submarine. Aquacarrus is made up of aqua and carrus. Aqua means water, and carrus means wagon or cart. Essentially, aquacarrus means water-wagon," Hermione said. She continued talking about the dead Latin language and Harry easily tuned her out. When would he need to know Latin anyway?

"Why on earth did anyone agree with the kid anyway?" Harry asked, directing his question to Ron. His friend shrugged and continued to eat.

"Beats me. Ask the kid, whoever he was," he said. Harry ignored his helpful advice and opted to eat his food. "How long before Hermione realizes I'm not listening?" Harry asked Ron disinterestedly.

"I would say you have at least three minutes or so," Ron said. Harry nodded and took another bite of whatever was on his plate.

"Harry!" a voice screeched. Harry almost dropped his spoon when Hermione's voice accosted his ears.

"So much for three minutes," Harry growled to Ron.

"Sorry, mate. I didn't take into account the fact that today is the second day. During the school year, she doesn't care as much if you don't listen," Ron said, shrugging. Harry turned away from him to look at Hermione, but she was already chewing on her own food.

During his free period, instead of going with Ron to play or study, he headed for the Room of Requirement. He felt he needed to apologize to Antonio for the abrupt disturbance. He walked in happily, looking for the portrait. Indeed, the man was in his portrait, asleep.

"Antonio?" he asked, poking the portrait. The man jerked awake and upon seeing Harry, beamed.

"Ah, Harry! What brings you here? I know you have class right now!" he said, wagging a playful finger at him.

"I have a free period. Listen, I'm sorry my friends interrupted us last time, but—"

"That is okay! In fact, yesterday, I had the chance to see Gatto again! He is out of practice, you know. That is what happens when you neglect practice," he wagged a finger at Harry and continued to chatter on, "I also believe his _livello__ di magia_ have gone down because of it."

Harry was about to ask about how he had the chance to see Snape when the bit about magic levels distracted him. "What do you mean, 'livello di magia?"

Antonio waved his hand dismissively. "Magic level, or level of magic. You know, how magic corresponds with the arts like music. It is like that."

Harry furrowed his eyebrows. He had no idea what the man was talking about. It must have been obvious to Vivaldi, because the man gasped. "You do not know! I thought every wizard and witch knew!" He huffed. "This shows how advanced this civilization is now!"

"No, Antonio. I haven't the faintest about what you're saying," Harry said, almost exasperated with the man. If anything, he loved to frustrate people.

"Then I will tell you!" Antonio said, picking up his own violin.

Harry waited a few seconds before saying, "Then go ahead." He was a bit impatient to know what the man was hiding.

"All good things come in time," Antonio said with a smirk.

"Yeah, I guess. Well, while you are thinking of what to say, I will come back later tonight and you can tell me then. _Arrivederci,_" Harry walked toward the door, and stopped when he heard Antonio.

"Fine, fine, come back. I will tell you!" Harry casually walked back, smiling the entire time. The man was too predictable. He sat down on the cream-colored cushion of one of the wooden chairs. He looked to Antonio and expectantly nodded his head for the man to continue.

"Okay, I have no earthly idea why you do not know this. I thought all wizards knew this?" Antonio started.

"Antonio, please, just tell me what you meant," Harry said wearily. He was tired of this back-and-forth play between them, however entertaining it was, and he wanted an answer.

The man nodded and looked Harry in the eye. He cleared his throat and laid his violin down. "Most wizards and witches know what I am about to tell you. From your reaction, I suspect that this generation is ignorant of this information. Why, I do not know. Many years ago (and I mean many) I was a priest. You know what happened. However, there was also a reason why I never said mass. I believed in God, but I was also friends with many wizards. According to the bible, magic is evil, or so it says in the passage of Exodus 22:17. These people were not evil at all, and I would surely never put one to death! Unless she were a _strega diabolica_, an evil witch…but I am digressing. In fact, most were just like the normal people around me. Some of these wizards were better people than the non-magical people I knew!"

Harry interrupted, "Wait, weren't you a wizard?"

Antonio smiled. "No, I was not a wizard, nor have I ever been. Let me continue. I loved music, and music was my life. For some reason, whenever I was composing or maybe even playing an instrument, I saw strange things. Once, when I was singing with the choir out on the street in front of a church, I was leading them. Behind them, I saw a door appear. It was the most inconspicuous door, and I had never seen it before. I came back a few days later, and it was gone. I forgot about it until a trio from the girls' school played on that same street, with me playing a violin, making it a quartet. As I played, the door appeared again! I left them to continue during an intermission, and my students were very competent so the girls did not even need my help in the first place. I went over to the door and opened it, and I found so many different people! They were wearing odd clothing, and they spoke of things I had never heard. I met a few people, and they were magical. That was my first meeting with them.

"One man explained why I could see the door at times and not at others. He said that the ability to do magic was in everyone, but the amount of magic one had affected whether one was a wizard or muggle. In fact, a few muggles have levels just below the minimum for a wizard. That is how these things work. For some reason, my friend could not explain it, and neither could I, but music can affect those magic levels. It sounds odd, but it is true. The reason I could see the door those two times was because I was thoroughly engrossed with music, and music itself is a great magic. The one time I tried to find the door again, I had no thought of music, so my levels were lower. Many pureblood families introduce their children to music at an early age to make sure he or she is not a squib. Even a born squib can become a wizard if a person involves himself or herself with quite a bit of music. Other arts can affect magic, like language arts, dancing, drawing, and even knowledge can trigger magic levels to increase. However, the strongest, I believe, is _music_a.

"I believe Albus agrees with me as well. He has a fondness of chamber music. I remember a few years back when I noticed that Gatto was very on edge, but I could not speak with him. I reminded Albus how strong a magic music was, and that year, he had the students sing the alma mater. I was not very surprised when he ended with,** '**Ah, music, a magic beyond all we do here'. I have not heard the song since then, but I wish I could hear the students sing it again. They do not have the most miraculous voices, but at least they sing from their hearts!"

Antonio finished with a sigh. "And that is the connection between music and magic. I am sure this is not all new to you."

"No, it is very new! Are you saying that the more I practice, the higher my magical levels will be?" Harry asked.

Antonio nodded vigorously. "Indeed! For example, Celestina Warbeck is one of the most powerful witches I have ever met!"

"Warbeck? As in the singer of the Puddlemore United team anthem?" Harry asked.

"Yes, it is. She has visited me quite a few times. She has amazing vocal cords," Antonio said.

Harry thought on Antonio's words. They were surprising, to say the least. To hear that muggles could become wizards if they threw themselves into enough music was amazing. What did that mean for the Beatles? What did that mean for other great muggle singers and bands? Wondering about this, he vocalized his question.

"Those muggles are usually too old to go into the wizarding world once they have found their music. Sometimes, they do not want to leave their glamorous lives for something as ridiculous as magic. The ones that fall out of the limelight usually either lose their passion for music or cannot survive in the magical world with only their music to support their magic. The amount of magical levels can be genetic, but sometimes if a young muggle person finds an art that creates higher magical levels, that child can be what society calls a muggleborn. High magical levels are recessive genes, so it is possible for one person with high magic levels and a person with normal magic levels to have an offspring with low magical levels, a squib. If a squib has a child with a person with genes for high magical levels but actually have a normal amount of magic, they can have children with high magical levels. It is more complicated than what I have told you. I believe muggles these days go more in depth in genetics than wizards. Unfortunately, you have to be in class soon."

Harry blinked and averted his eyes from Antonio's, to look at his watch. Cursing and earning a chiding remark from Antonio, Harry flew out of the Room of Requirement and toward his next class.

He thought of his conversation with Antonio as he flew through the hallways. If what he said were true, then if he practiced enough, he would have magic that is more powerful. Adding to that the removals of spells his mother placed, he would have even more magic! Harry wondered whether any of this could help in his final battle against Voldemort. At this rate, he did not think he could handle any more revelations about more magic.

He skidded to stop outside the dungeon door. It was so perfect, Harry thought, that he should be late for _this _class, of all the classes he took. He took lungful of breath to regain that which he had lost by running the speed he did. Some in the classroom were snickering at him, but most ignored him. The only person with a positive reaction was Hermione, who looked relieved.

"Mr. Potter, why are you late?" the professor asked snappishly. Harry looked sheepishly at him but did not answer. He could hardly say he was hanging with Vivaldi.

Harry was ready with a clever lie, but he found himself inarticulate when met with the man's intimidating glare. "I was, er, that is, I—"

"Eloquent, Potter. You have detention at seven. Take a seat and try not to botch this potion," Snape interrupted, pointing to a seat next to Hermione, one of the four empty seats in the classroom. Harry nodded and sat next to his friend. The potions class was about the same size as always, but it seemed all four houses were in the same class. Snape had cut many students because of their OWL scores, and Harry was surprised that he was still there.

"What potion is this?" Harry asked her in a hushed tone. Hermione whispered the name of it to him, and they started on the potion. They worked in almost complete silence, breaking it only to ask for an ingredient. They were almost finished.

In all this silence, Harry had time to think. Why did Snape put him with Hermione? There were certainly other empty seats. In fact, there was one right in front of Malfoy, a perfect place for Malfoy to throw ingredients into unsuspecting cauldrons. Harry knew that Snape would have no qualms about giving Harry another detention when Malfoy destroyed cauldrons. However, he started questioning what he knew of the professor.

Harry got off that topic and thought of Vivaldi. The composer said he had talked to Snape earlier. Was that why the usually scowling man was absentmindedly and leisurely sitting in his desk, scribbling like there was all the time in the world? Harry thought this a good change. A calm Snape could not overreact about exploding cauldrons.

As he was thinking of this, Harry froze. Something flew through the air, and Harry watched as it plopped into Malfoy's cauldron. With a tremendous force, the cauldron exploded with bright incandescent colors. He, along with the other students, was unfortunate enough that the colored goop landed on him.

"If this…potion," Snape wrinkled his nose in distaste, "landed on you, come up here. Afterward, vial all you have accomplished so far." Students sluggishly inched their way toward his desk, the goop slowing them down. The first to reach the front happened to be a Ravenclaw student. With one swift motion, the goop disappeared from her and Snape gave the still lethargic student a tiny vial to drink. She downed the potion quickly and perked up immediately.

"Thank you, Professor," she said happily, almost running back to her seat to get away from the potions master. Snape healed more students until Malfoy was the last left. By this time, all the students were back to their own potions, salvaging what was left into small glass vials.

From where Harry was sitting, he could hear Malfoy and Snape's conversation.

"What happened, Draco?" Snape quietly asked.

"I don't know, Professor. One second, I was adding the last ingredient and the next second, my potion blows up!" Draco said angrily but just as quietly.

Snape did not answer for a while before curiously asking, "What ingredient did you mix in before your potion exploded?"

"I had just drizzled in some Easter Lily root," Draco answered. Harry heard Snape dismiss the last student. He saw, in the corner of his eye, Draco inspecting his own cauldron. Harry went back to the potion, ladling as much accurate potion as he could.

Snape walked up and down the aisles, taking the marked vials. This was unusual for the irritable Potions Master who usually sat at his desk awaiting the potions, but Harry dismissed it as part of Snape's oddities for this day. As Snape collected his vial, Harry saw the man's eyes scanning the desks. He noticed the self-satisfied smirk on the man's face and felt a tendril of dread.

"Mr. Potter, detention tomorrow as well," Snape said, continuing on his way. To the side, Harry heard Hermione huffing indignantly. Harry had no idea what spurred this on, but he decided it was just Snape being Snape. It was only when Hermione was collecting the remaning ingredients that he noticed something amiss.

"Harry, do you know where those cat parts went?" Hermione asked. Harry winced, because he was not overly fond of those ingredients. For some reason, their potion required a variety of cat organs and parts. He found it more than a little disgusting. He searched the desk, but found nothing. He paled.

Pausing to look his friend in the eye, he asked, "What happens if one adds some of those cat parts to the potion right after the Easter Lily?"

She shrugged, continuing to clean their desk. "Either the potion will be neutralized, or the reactants will create a bright-colored…Harry, where did you get that idea?" Hermione asked, looking up at him with unbound curiosity.

"Our cat parts are missing, and I overheard that Malfoy had just added his Easter Lily roots before his cauldron exploded." Harry quickly looked at other tables and saw that the cat organs of all the other groups were all there.

Hermione's eyes widened. "That's why he gave you detention." She furiously examined the desk, looking for any remains of their missing ingredient. "That is sure wrong. We needed those ingredients for the final step," she turned to Harry. "_You_ are not childish enough to do something like this, right?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Harry quickly shook his head negatively. With her, they took their vials up to the front desk with their names on them. Overall, Snape had actually been fair today. He had only given detention when Harry deserved it, or when there was evidence that Harry was to blame.

Harry left potions with an odd sense of pride in Snape. If only Snape were this fair all the time. Vivaldi must have been rubbing off on him, and Harry appreciated it. He left for the Room of Requirement for his next free period while Hermione ran to the library.

Vivaldi was just as enthusiastic as ever once Harry picked up the violin. Antonio pointed out a few flaws in his posture and helped him count out the rhythms in the book of etudes that happened to appear. Harry was smiling broadly by the time he had to leave. Today, nothing could possibly ruin his mood.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **I'm sorry about not getting this out earlier. Hey, at least you didn't have to wait as long as before. Considering I've been busy, this is pretty good. I've tried to edit it, and find any flaws, but there might be some flaws. Please tell me if anything is wrong! I think I'm just going to let the chapter titles kill themselves until I have time to find a nice way of naming them. Otherwise, it'll just be Chapter 1, Chapter 2, etc. There are two characters in the flashback that aren't too important...but I liked their names. If you want reasoning behind them or the situation (there isn't much), just tell me. Please review!

**Disclaimer: **This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

Written by Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

After all his classes, Harry visited Vivaldi in the room. He plopped down on the seat after moving the violin case to the floor.

"Is something wrong?" the composer asked him.

"Not really. I have detention from Snape today and tomorrow," Harry said passively. Honestly, he did not care that much today. He was much too happy now to dread something that would come in what, a few hours. That was such a long time anyway.

"Were you late?" Vivaldi asked, not masking his humor.

Harry playfully threw a glare his direction and stuck his tongue out. "No, in fact, I was so early, Snape gave me a detention to disguise the dance lessons he promised this afternoon and tomorrow."

Antonio laughed heartily, and they continued to talk.

Harry approached the door of the potions classroom warily for detention. He did not know how Snape would react if he came early, and he did not want to know if it would be negative. Three minutes before seven found Harry pacing outside the classroom, not knowing what to do. He jumped when a silky, almost chilling voice, told him to enter. Harry distractedly wondered if he would ever have such an effective voice as he slowly opened the door and walked in.

The classroom was the same as it was the past years, but something was incredibly different. The furniture had not moved, the room was no cleaner than usual, and the room still radiated the cold. However, Harry could not help but find something amiss. He immediately spotted it in the form of Severus Snape.

The same inky black robes clothed Snape, and he was sitting in the same stiff chair behind the same dull wooden desk. Pale skin and hair as black as his robes still shone on him.

Despite all of this regularity, Harry noticed a blaring difference at once. Most would not see it, but after years of feeling the man's glare, Harry knew there was none directed at him. He was surprised.

Snape, nevertheless apparently decided that the absence of the glare would be more detrimental rather than helpful to his cause. Harry instantly noticed the man's dark eyes suddenly drill into his own unprepared eyes. Harry looked away as fast as he could without any large movement. How could he forget that Snape was a Legilimens? Disaster would ensue if Snape ever found out what Harry knew.

Snape sniffed in a way that resembled Malfoy, and Harry had to stop himself from chuckling. "Mr. Potter," Snape started with that irritatingly smooth voice, "Tell me, why were you late for my class?"

Harry paused. He had expected to clean dirty desks, or reorganize the chaos that was the man's potions cabinet. He did not expect Snape to ask him why, of all things, he was late. Harry thought of plausible reasons for his tardiness, but could not find one before Snape spoke again.

"Because you were so eloquent last time, I supposed you would have found a way to vocalize your reasons by now," Snape said bitingly. Harry almost flinched. That man had a way to get on anybody's nerves.

"I, well," Harry did not know what to say. What could he say? 'Sorry, dad, but I was catching up with Antonio. By the way, you know you're my dad, right?' Harry mentally scoffed at the words. That would go swimmingly, he knew.

"I do not have all day, Potter," Snape, growled.

Harry thought of an excuse and hoped it would work to his advantage. He sighed in what could have been termed 'overly dramatic', but Snape only rolled his eyes. Harry raised his eyes a bit, not quite reaching the other man's, but high enough to seem like he was honestly trying to tell the truth. "I truly am sorry sir," he started nervously.

He raised his eyes a little more and they locked with his father's. Suddenly he could not speak. Did he think he could possibly trick the man into believing any pathetic lies? Harry did not think so. Respecting the man's intelligence, Harry merely said, "I lost track of time."

Snape did not seem impressed at all. The man crossed his arms and glared full force at him. Harry gulped nervously. What could he have said?

"Indeed, Mr. Potter. Maybe you should think to get a watch—if arriving on time to class matters at all to you." The words reminded him faintly of his first Transfiguration lesson with McGonagall. Provided, this confrontation was probably much more volatile than his first year one with his head of house.

"Yes, sir," Harry said, stopping a scowl from appearing on his face. He did not want to antagonize him more than he had already.

His caution seemed to have worked against him because Snape narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Instead of answering, Snape seemed to contemplate his next move before carelessly waving his wand toward a corner of the room. Dirty cauldrons materialized and Harry knew exactly what he would be doing for the rest of his detention.

Time seemed to slow down for Harry, because he still had an hour left of detention, but no dirty cauldrons. He realized that the amount of dirty cauldrons was less than usual, but he tried not to question his luck. He had spent the two hours making sure not to think of his mother's letter or Antonio, just for the sake of vigilance. Harry wondered when Snape would let him go, because he had more questions for Antonio.

He tried not to concentrate on his many questions, but he was getting restless. He wanted out! More than a bit frustrated, Harry scrubbed one of the immaculate cauldrons until it was shiny enough to catch light and start a fire.

"Finished already, Potter?" Snape sneered. The sudden voice startled Harry, but he quickly regained his composure.

"Yes, sir," he said politely. He looked toward his professor, still avoiding the man's eyes. Snape looked at him suspiciously before carelessly waving his hand.

"Then leave already. What makes you think I want you down here any longer than necessary?" the man growled. Harry noticed that it did not have as much bite as usual. Surely, the man was not going soft.

Harry fled the potions lab as quickly as possible and was in the Room of Requirement in what seemed like no time at all. Once inside, he looked for Antonio, only to find a bare wall at the other end.

Harry looked more furtively, but found no portrait. "Antonio? Vivaldi? Are you here?" Harry called. The bookcase with knickknacks and other interesting things was still there, as were the two blue violin-shaped bottles. The grand piano stood where it had always stood, and the stand and chair were in their rightful places as well. The violin case was safely on the chair. Everything was the same, but the composer was not there. He looked for Antonio a few more minutes before giving up. Where was the man? Where else could he be?

With these questions, another popped up. Where was Vivaldi when he was not in the Room of Requirement? There had to be a specific room somewhere, or somewhere he resided when people used the room for other things.

Harry realized that despite all he now knew of the Vivaldi of the Baroque Era, he did not know as much of this Vivaldi. It slightly disturbed him, but Harry figured he could ask Antonio some other time. Since he was here already, he decided he might as well brush up on his music.

He looked through the available sheet music and found nothing appealing. The music seemed monotonous, and lost its zeal. He still loved it; he still enjoyed the resonant harmonies in his room, but how could he recreate that bliss when the music he had here, in this place, did not excite him to play? He looked through the stacks of sheet music that happened to be there, and found something easy enough.

Harry put it on the stand and played, trying to capture the euphoria that usually came from hearing and creating music. The melody was simple but beautiful. It reminded him of his mother's song. He finished with a sigh and a smile. No matter what, he would never lose his love for music.

* * *

Severus frowned when Potter left the dungeons. The boy was too passive. Had anything happened since he had last seen the boy? Severus thought back over the summer and knew that something was definitely odd about Potter this year. He would tell Dumbledore later. For now, Severus walked over to his closet to find Antonio lazily plucking his strings.

"Antonio, I hope you have been waiting for me," Severus said.

"Ah, no. I am afraid I was not waiting for you," Vivaldi replied simply.

Severus smirked and stepped into the larger-than-normal closet. "So you were waiting for your mystery visitor? What makes you think he can come in through here?"

Antonio laughed openly. "Yes, I was waiting for him. However, what makes you think I can only meet him here?"

Severus blinked, surprised. Could the mystery visitor find another way into the closet? Could Vivaldi move to other rooms within Hogwarts? Honestly, he would not put it past the castle for either possibility.

"I guess you will not tell me how," Severus said, knowing that Vivaldi would tell him nothing.

In response, Antonio said, "Of course not. Severus, will you fix up your cello now? You should take it to a professional. With it being so cold down here, there might be more damage than your inexperienced eye can see."

Severus did not take offense to the statement. After all, he spoke the truth. "I guess I will. I can go this weekend if Albus does not have me doing something."

"I will tell him to give you a break this weekend then."

"How are you able to communicate with Albus?" Severus asked. As far as he knew, Vivaldi only had his portrait in his enlarged closet.

Antonio shrugged carelessly. "Albus has a portrait of me in his rooms. I'm the one to the top left of his bed, if you have ever looked."

Severus had to admit that he had never looked around the few times he was in Albus' rooms. "So if you have access to the world outside my closet," Severus thought the wording sounded a bit odd, "why are you always so clueless?"

Vivaldi looked offended. "Clueless? I am not clueless! I do not spend all my time in Dumbledore's rooms. Other people have my portrait!" he said indignantly.

Severus tried to placate the composer without seem patronizing. "I did not mean it like that, Antonio." He did not know what else to say. He did not feel like playing his cello, only because he did want to aggravate it until he had it checked out. To have played it yesterday for the first time in a long time was a good refresher, but maybe not a good idea.

They enjoyed the silence a bit more before Vivaldi broke the silence. Severus looked up to see his smiling face. "I have a question." Severus raised his eyebrow to show he was listening.

"Well, I remember you all laughing about a man named Johnny many years ago. It had something to do with Focosina and an undercover job. She promised to tell me, but never did. What was that?"

The question took Severus by surprise. Of all the things, he did not expect this question. He remembered the situation, and in all truth, it was a humorous situation.

"You will enjoy this, Antonio. It only shows how clever Focosina was," Severus started. "She was pregnant, and one could easily tell. The order had evidence that one Jonathan Jugson was guilty of numerous crimes. However, even though the order was quite sure of where he was, they could not legally go there and arrest him…

"_So Jugson is hiding in a flower shop with his girlfriend, Clytemnestra. Apparently, they were going to get married, but Jugson stalled it. Clytemnestra did not appreciate that—it seems she has a real problem when she sees him with other women. We cannot aprehend him or his girlfriend, unless someone goes there and manages to make him come out and admit he is hiding there with the help of Clytemnestra. We cannot even legally raid the place, because the ministry does not want to give their support to capture Jugson," the leader started._

"_We should just go there and arrest him. Who cares if we get his girlfriend? We just need him, not his girl," Severus said calmly and condescendingly._

_Another, Sirius, stood up and angrily answered, "Did you not hear him? We need both! If we let her go, she could cause more trouble."_

"_Unless someone can go undercover and get him to come out of the flower shop—having him tell of his girlfriend's guilt would also be good. Who can do that?" Lily reasonably told them._

"_I can," one man said. They all turned to see Kingsley Shacklebolt. "I can probably convince him to come out. All I need is backup just in case something happens."_

_They all agreed. The next week, Kingsley Shacklebolt came back, unsuccessful._

"_What happened? What failed?" Lily asked everyone, once they were all settled._

"_For one, Jugson knows that we're after him, and Shacklebolt has the cunning of a four-year-old," Severus said._

_They all rolled their eyes at the customary insult. Severus Snape could not go a day without criticizing someone._

"_We need someone he will not suspect," James said, obviously stressed._

_There was a silence before Lily broke it. "I can do it." They all blinked once, maybe twice._

"_Lily, I don't think this is healthy for the baby," he said, looking at Lily's abdomen._

"_Don't worry. I have a plan that will definitely work."_

_People loitered in shops and areas around the flower shop, unobtrusively watching Lily in case something should go awry. She had a bug and camera on her, so that they could hear and see everything. Lily walked in nervously as she wrung her hands. Severus could tell just by looking at her that she was nervous. He cursed. If she was this obvious, she would just be putting her life in danger and there would be no chance to arrest Jugson. How could Potter let her go in there like that?_

_Severus watched her on the muggle-looking screen before him. One good thing could be said about Lily's plan. There was no way anyone could trace this woman to Lily. The woman on the screen had short blonde hair, cut like a bob. She wore flashy glasses and a gaudy outfit that paraded the fact that she was pregnant._

_Lily walked to the front desk, where a woman, maybe a bit younger than Lily herself, sat, reading the Daily Prophet. Lily apprehensively rang the little bell on the counter, and the woman looked up, obviously bored. She smacked her lips and was chewing gum, by the look of it._

"_Can I help you?" she asked in an annoyed tone._

"_Yes, you can. Do you—is Johnny here?"_

_The woman narrowed her eyes at Lily. "Johnny who?"_

"_Jugson," Lily said, producing a doctored photo of her changed self and Jugson hugging each other lovingly._

"_Why do you think he's here?" she asked, more wary than before._

"_Oh it's nothing. It's just that," Lily paused and stepped back from the counter so the other woman could see her pregnant belly._

_Severus suddenly realized her plan. Clytemnestra had an obvious jealous streak and Lily used that to her advantage to get Jugson._

"_I see," the other woman said with narrowed eyes. Clytemnestra left through a door behind her, and shouts and screams permeated through the walls. Through the screen showing Lily, Snape could hear snippets of accusations from Clytemnestra and claims of innocence._

_A man came out of the back door and raked his eyes over Lily. As soon as he saw the man's face, he knew they had Jugson. The Order immediately raided the store, apprehending Jugson. To take suspicion off Lily, they claimed that one of their operatives had seen him as soon as he came out and called his comrades to the location._

And that's what happened," Severus ended.

"She is _una donna intelligente_," Vivaldi said.

"Yes, Lily was very intelligent."

"And a wonderful violinist."

Severus nodded in agreement. Vivaldi smiled slyly and asked, "I have heard she has a son—is he proficient in an instrument as well?" There were two reasons for this question. One, he needed to know how much Severus knew of Harry, and two, he needed to know his opinion of Harry.

Severus almost snorted with laughter. "Potter—with music—are you serious? That boy is the most uncouth and culturally incompetent fool in the entire world," he said.

Vivaldi nodded. His suspicions were correct. Severus neither knew much of him, nor knew him. He listened to Severus play his cello, and although the strings were old and few parts needed inspection, the music was still as sweet as ever.

Despite the beauty coming from the instrument, Antonio found he could not concentrate. He would look at Gato and wonder why he hated Harry so much. Even if he were James Potter's son, that would not be enough to earn so much of Gato's ire. Vivaldi would need to a lot of work to fix the rift in between the two. Yes, they needed a lot of work.

* * *

A week later found Harry casually eating his toast. He was tense or perhaps disappointed today, because Ron had been with him the entire morning, and he couldn't visit Vivaldi. He continued seeing Vivaldi, in the morning before breakfast, during the night, and the occasional free period. Hermione and Ron had only caught him once in the Room after the first confrontation, and when they did, the yearbook had reappeared. Harry would never be able to vocalize the appreciation he had for the room. Today was the first day that he did not see Vivaldi before breakfast.

He finished off the toast and tried to hold a sigh from escaping. He did not seem to notice Ron's questioning glances sent to Hermione on Harry's odd behavior. Her own concerned glances also did not merit recognition from Harry.

She stopped him in mid-bite, and said, "Harry is something wrong?"

Harry paused for a second and sheepishly chuckled. "No, I don't think so." He took another buttered toast and ate it at a faster rate to dissuade other looks from more people. "Do I seem like something's wrong?" he asked, with no negative inflection. Apparently, he truly wanted to make sure he did not look like there was something bothering him.

That, of course, sparked Hermione's curiosity. She did not question him, for the time being.

Harry noticed that he was under Hermione's scrutiny when he plopped down into his seat for potions. She kept looking at him with that thoughtful expression. He thought that she had been acting strange lately. It might have started the day after his first detention with Snape. The morning after, he had been happy and bright, a contrast to what one expected from him.

He thought he was inconspicuous enough these days. However, no matter how much he convinced himself that there was no reason for her to be suspicious, he still felt uneasy under her sidelong gaze.

He grew more uncomfortable as class wore one. Hermione's outward extreme concentration on her potion told Harry that she did not intend for him to notice the looks. Throughout class, Harry was trying to understand Hermione's inconspicuous body language. Toward the end of class, Harry regretfully glanced at his bright turquoise in comparison to everyone else's dark, almost black, navy potions, courtesy of his lack of attention.

Harry decided that he did not have genes for aptitude in potions. He put the potion into vials and looking at Ron's neon pink potion, realized that he could have been much worse off. He left the class as quickly as possible to reach the Room of Requirement before Hermione could approach him.

Unfortunately, Hermione was just as quick and reached him before he could go in any direction resembling the path toward the Room of Requirement. "Harry, I have to talk to you."

Harry knew that this had been long in coming, and let her continue.

"Harry, I know something is up," she said calmly. Ron stood beside her and obviously had no idea why they were having a confrontation.

"Something is up? What?" Harry asked, easily feigning innocence.

"Harry, do not lie to me. More than a week ago, I was quite sure you were not the one to throw those ingredients in that cauldron."

"Yeah, I told you that."

Hermione continued as if she had never stopped. "I wanted to talk to you that day, but I thought I should just watch and make sure my thoughts were founded. You claim you were innocent, yet you easily accepted Snape's detention. Harry, I like to think that I know you well enough to know when you should react, and you don't."

"Are you saying that by not exploding at the professor, who could possibly give me more detentions, I am giving you evidence that I am not acting like myself?" Harry asked in disbelief. Did she not understand that boys could mature?

"What I'm saying, Harry, is that yes, you aren't acting like yourself. In fact, you haven't been acting like yourself since the second we arrived at Hogwarts."

Harry looked at her as if her theory were crazy. "Listen, Hermione, maybe I have matured. It's natural," he said honestly. He truly believed he was growing up and did not react as extremely as he did when he was younger.

Hermione uneasily looked to Ron, and then around them. It looked like she was trying to make sure no one could hear them. "It's not just that, Harry." She paused and scoured the area with her eyes.

She shifted uncomfortably and grabbed the boys' hands. Hermione led them quietly and quickly to an abandoned classroom on one of the higher floors.

Ron stationed himself on Harry's right and Hermione on his left. Their positions were slightly imposing. "What is this about, Hermione?" Harry asked nervously.

"This is about your well-being, Harry James Potter."

Why did she use his full name? He decided either she liked the sound of a full and flowing name, or she was serious. Harry would bet on the latter, but prefer the former.

"My well-being."

"Harry, Ron and I have been noticing some odd behavior from you."

Harry raised an eyebrow at Ron as he saw that his friend bore the same concerned look that Hermione usually wore.

Ron said, "So this is what we're talking about now. Hermione and I were concerned, because according to her, you were exhibiting odd behavior."

"You do realize that you essentially repeated what Hermione said," Harry said to stall. What odd behavior were they talking about? He did not notice any change in himself, and hoped if there were change, only his close friends, and not any teachers, could tell.

Hermione waved it off and looked Harry in the eyes. "Harry, you disappear at night, early morning, any and all breaks, and during free periods, you never spend time with us. There is something wrong with that."

Harry had to admit that she had a point. Had he really been that obvious? He was not sure how to answer that, but Hermione continued without waiting for a response.

"And whenever you come back from wherever you were, you are happier and a bit more forgetful. This morning, when Ron inadvertently made sure that there was no possible way for you to be by yourself, you were extremely agitated about something."

Harry was trying to piece together the half-conclusions and the few clues to find what she thought. He doubted she would guess correctly. The first time they had caught him, he had had the yearbook as his alibi. Harry frowned because he would need another reason to be in the Room of Requirement if they find him. Even if he used that alibi for his disappearances, it might seem strange that he would look at the book so often for long periods. He supposed the room could magically provide him with a different suitable alibi, but since it was not there to help him, he was on his own.

Harry was, he had to admit, a little irritated that they were meddling in his business. What he had in the room was beyond their comprehension, and something he liked to keep to himself. "Hermione, what are you getting at?"

She _looked_ at him, as if he were a puzzle to be solved. "I think that you aren't going there every time just to look at a yearbook. You are hiding something from us. Harry, why won't you tell us? You used to tell us everything!"

Harry felt mildly guilty seeing Hermione's and Ron's worried faces. "I—what makes what I'm doing suspicious?"

Hermione, still worried, rolled her eyes. "Do I have to repeat myself? You have hid this from us since, I suppose, the first day of school. You act extremely suspicious, and though we fell for it the first time, I got suspicious the second time we found you in the Room with that yearbook. You leave very often, and when you get back, you are always really happy, almost…high."

Harry felt like laughing and screaming, "I can't believe you'd think that!" at the same time. He settled for an in between. That is, he stared at her, gaping like a fish.

"You think…wait, tell me what you think so I don't misunderstand."

"The Room of Requirement can provide you with anything you want. It would probably provide you with drugs, if you felt you needed it," Ron answered.

They were both in on this crackpot idea? Harry didn't think the Room of Requirement would give him anything that could directly harm him. The Room had been acting a bit like an over-indulgent mother, not someone who would give you anything if you asked.

Harry thought of how he could answer. "You think I'm taking drugs?" Hermione nodded.

He couldn't find the words to answer. What does a person say to that? He doubted he would ever resort to drugs, and didn't know why his friends thought he would. "Other than the few _obscure_ observations, what makes you think I'm using drugs? Do you have any other reasons? Have I been acting drugged? Have you any evidence? Are you just coming up with a theory with no solid proof?"

"Harry," Ron started. "There's plenty of reason why you would start using drugs. With everything that's happened, I would not be surprised."

His friends must think lowly of him.

"He didn't mean it like that," Hermione said, as if reading Harry's mind. "He meant that anyone could be pushed to taking drugs, given the opportunity, with your situation. We do not think any less of you."

Harry analyzed her words. 'We do not think any less of you' meant that they were confident in their suspicions. He found himself growing angry with them.

"I can't believe you'd think that!" He finally shouted. He wanted to allay them of their horrible misconceptions, yet he also wanted to let them rot in their crazy, concocted assumptions. He did not know whether to tell them, or just ditch them. He calmed himself and looked Hermione in the eye.

"I do not abuse drugs. I have not even used any medical drugs in the past six years. I am being completely serious, Hermione. Give me a drug test, or something. You will not find anything."

Hermione creased her eyebrows. "I thought you'd say that. I thought I knew you well enough to know that you would never misuse drugs, but when you spend three months away from a person, a situation can change drastically. That is why I made this a few days ago. I have been suspicious for a while now, and only recently brought it to Ron's attention." Hermione took a vial out of her robes. It was an ugly brown-green color with the occasional yellow gunk floating around.

"It tests for any harmful substances that have been in the bloodstream within week. I made it just in case. It is an easy test. Just drink it." She handed the vial to Harry, and he inspected it. He sniffed the top and it had no odor. He dipped his pinky in it and put it on the end of his tongue. To his surprise, it was sweet and had a taste that was not as revolting as most potions. Looking Hermione and then Ron in the eye, he tilted his head up and downed the vial.

Hermione seemed to analyze him for a few minutes before sighing happily. She looked up with a smile and said, "I am so glad that wasn't the case!" Her positive reaction made Harry feel better about their faithlessness. Ron was also happy, and clapped Harry on the back.

"See, Hermione? Harry wouldn't do something that stupid," Ron laughed. The brighter mood dispelled any remaining thoughts of his frequent disappearances. Harry was grateful.

They left the girl's bathroom, all smiling. Hermione still seemed to be a bit on edge, but otherwise, everything was fine.

Once they were back in the common room, Harry sighed in relief. He had kept his secret safe one more day. He just had to hope that Hermione never found a theory close to the truth. Knowing Hermione, she would be the first to discover the truth.

* * *

"Why do you not just tell them?" Antonio asked.

Harry plucked at his strings and shrugged. "I don't think they would understand."

Vivaldi frowned a bit. "Harry, what makes you think they would not understand?"

Harry shrugged again. "It's just…I guess I don't know," Harry felt frustrated.

"I think you just do not want to share your talent. You should tell them."

Harry looked up and blinked. "You think?" He mindlessly continued plucking an A major scale as he thought of the possible repercussions of telling his friends.

"Yes! What could possibly go wrong?"

Well, Ron had a big mouth, but he could keep a secret if Harry needed him to. Hermione would completely accept it, and probably urge him to practice everyday as he had been doing. He could find no downside to telling them, but for some reason, he still felt like he needed to keep this to himself.

"Your friends deserve your _onestá_, your honesty," Antonio said wisely.

Harry wasn't completely sure, but promised to think about it. They went onto other things, like how to say various musical words in Italian. After that, Vivaldi gave him some advice on taking care of the violin and himself.

"You must clean the violin after every use. A cloth just appeared on your case. You use that to clean. Make sure to loosen the bow when you are finished with it. When you play, make sure you take care of yourself. Some violinists experience rough skin underneath the jaw line, where the chinrest lies. If for some reason you arm becomes extremely tired, let it rest," Vivaldi paused in his lecture, and looked toward the bookcase, where a clock had appeared. "I think you should be heading to sleep now."

Harry agreed after seeing the time. Waving, he said, "_Addio._"

The composer responded in the same, and Harry smiled. This had not been too horrible a day. He thought that maybe he could tell his friends about his secret meetings with Vivaldi. He could trust them not to tell anyone.

So engrossed with his thoughts, only when he bumped into her, did he realize that Hermione was standing outside the door.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Once again, I have waited and procrastinated. Truly, I am sorry. As for this chapter, I hope it is not too confusing. Really, there are no notes, other than a great thanks to Milky Etoile for the long review. So, all review are welcome and greatly appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Musical Magic**

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

Harry's eyes locked onto Hermione's and he gulped.

"Harry James Potter," she said, menacingly quiet. Harry waited for the inevitable explosion. To his surprise, none came. Instead, Hermione lowered her head in resignation and she opened her mouth once or twice, trying to voice her thoughts, but was unable to. "I wish you would tell me what you are doing. What is it that you feel must be kept from us? Don't you trust me, or Ron?" she whispered with no reproach, reminding him that it was late at night. Somehow, her hurt words affected him more than her accusatory ones from earlier.

"I trust you guys!" he whispered back. He felt a twisting in his gut that argued otherwise.

Hermione shook her head sadly and grabbed his hand. "Whatever. Let's just get back to the dorms before we get in trouble." Harry silently agreed, and they walked through the hallways. He nervously wrung the invisibility cloak in his hands. After a while, he stopped using it and only carried it with him just in case. As they quietly padded their way back, Harry felt thankful yet disappointed. He had not expected Hermione to give up so easily. He suspected for a moment that she was tricking him into feeling guilty, but he quickly dismissed that suspicion once he actually looked at her. She looked genuinely sad, and however clever she was, Hermione was not the best actor. He felt a bit sick, looking at her worried and defeated expression. Hermione would never try to trick him, even though she probably would succeed.

The journey was quiet, but loud thoughts bombarded Harry's mind. He thought he would go crazy. After his conversation with Vivaldi, he thought maybe he should tell them. There was nothing stopping him, only his own stubbornness. Was it truly because he did not want to share his talent? Harry did not know. The last time, before Vivaldi, he had played for his uncle, and that did not turn out well. Harry shook his head to get rid of his stupid thoughts. His friends would never react like his uncle.

At the dorm, they still did not talk, save for the password. They parted at the stairs, and Harry felt her eyes on his back. He quietly walked into his room to find Ron sitting up.

"Harry," he acknowledged in a whisper, so that the others would not wake. Harry nodded. Ron did not answer, but just waved his hand. Harry took that as a signal to change. Once he was in his pajamas, he sat on his own bed.

At this point, Ron looked Harry in the eyes. "We are worried. You would…you would tell us if anything, you know, if there was anything, right?" he asked, tripping over his words. Harry looked at Ron. He saw a worried friend, one whose expression mirrored that of another he considered a friend.

Harry thought about it. If he were dying, he would tell them. However, he could not promise he would tell them everything. He said, "If it were important, I would tell you."

Ron continued to stare at him until he sighed. "I guess I will just have to trust you, Harry. Just don't do something stupid without me, okay?" he joked. Harry smiled at Ron's ability to lighten any mood.

He silently thanked his friend's understanding and slipped into bed. That night, he dreamed.

Harry yawned and stretched and he smiled about his dream. Throughout the dream, his mind had concentrated on Lily, and he completely disregarded the other man's presence. He looked over to the other beds and saw that not one person was awake yet. He thought about maybe visiting Vivaldi, but then his eyes caught sight of Ron. He felt the same gut wrenching feeling from the day before and decided to forego the visit until his free period. Sighing, he went back to sleep.

When his eyes opened again, they welcomed the sight of a happy-looking Ron. "Harry, come on! Breakfast is going to be over soon!" Harry was still groggy for a few seconds before comprehending Ron's words.

"Are you serious? You should have woken me sooner!" He said, changing as quickly as humanly possible.

Ron laughed, and said, "I thought you would need the sleep, considering your frequent late-night excursions."

Harry laughed too and joked, "Have you been reading the dictionary lately? Or perhaps a thesaurus?"

Ron playfully pushed him and again told him to hurry. In a few more minutes, Harry was messily sporting his robes and other clothes. Ron dragged him to the Great Hall and dropped onto his seat, taking Harry with him. In an instant, they had food piled on their plates. A few girls several seats down looked at the abundance of food in disgust, muttering about "black holes". Both ignored the comments and gratefully dug into their food. Hermione, sitting beside them, also had a disgusted look on her face.

"Could you two please slow down?" she asked, flinching as a piece of bacon narrowly missed her head. She glared at the offending food and threw it back at Ron.

"I didn't shrow tha' a 'ou!" Ron shouted indignantly, between bites.

"Sorry, 'mione," Harry said. Hermione huffed and crossed her arms.

"You are both incredibly immature," she said. She finished her toast and looked at her two friends.

"Would you love us otherwise?" Ron asked clearly, reloading his empty plate with more and more food. Harry laughed, and so did Hermione. Unfortunately, he was still chewing, and managed to choke a bit before swallowing what was in his mouth. He grabbed a nearby goblet and tilting his head, downed it.

"That was my juice!" Ron said, taking Harry's and drinking his.

"Hey!"

Both goblets immediately filled themselves, but neither boy noticed. They were too busy fighting. Hermione did not know how, but in a few minutes, the boys had a pumpkin juice-drinking contest. She shook her head as they drank and choked simultaneously. She smiled when other boys started egging them on, cheering and placing bets.

Hermione wondered how this had happened in the space of five minutes.

* * *

Severus skipped breakfast and canceled his morning class, saying he had a headache. It was true, though. He had an enormous migraine, and trying to get information into their stupid little brains would certainly not help. He opened the door of his closet to find Vivaldi happily humming a random tune.

He sat down on a soft chair with cream-colored cushions and sighed. He distanced his mind from the throbbing in his skull, and inspected the portrait in front of him. He only realized how a decade in a dusty closet could damage a portrait and its frame. His eyes ensnared the details of the frame, the dull of the wood, and the occasional chipping. He took his eyes off the frame and moved them to the curious ones of Vivaldi.

"Hello," Severus said amiably, or as amiably as Snape could get. Vivaldi gave him a bright smile in return, dismissing Severus's moment of inattention.

"How have you been, Gato?" he asked, pausing his humming to instead pluck at the strings on his violin.

"I have a headache, but other than that, I am fine," he answered, rubbing his temples with one hand.

Vivaldi nodded understandingly. "That is why you are here instead of teaching." He laughed and stopped his plucking. "Severus, that story you told me yesterday…I remember hearing something about it years ago, something about the tape used to record Jugson's arrest. Is it not somewhere here in Hogwarts?"

Severus nodded. "Indeed, it is. Actually, I do not know where it is anymore. I believe James Potter hid it somewhere around the Astronomy Tower."

"Did he now…" Vivaldi said. Severus sent a suspicious glance toward him, but the composer ignored it. "Anyway, let me hear some music. Your headache might go away if you hear something pleasant, instead of the jarring noise that Hogwarts can produce sometimes."

His cello floated to him, to Vivaldi's disapproval. Severus ignored the annoyed glances passing over him and summoned sheet music. He opened the book, a volume with songs well below the level he used to play before he stopped. He played a few notes before breaking into a fast-moving piece, his fingers dancing feverishly up and down the fingerboard. His bow ran across the instrument, expertly pulling the strings back and forth, touching them for only a second. It ran upon two strings at once, creating two harmonious notes in one stroke. In this way, he continued. He hit the occasional discordant double-stop, but furiously kept going. With a deep and final breath, he directed the bow to drag the string into a long, mournful note.

"You played very well, considering," Vivaldi said, obviously impressed. "If only students of today could do that well."

"Yes, well, the students of today are lazy and take everything for granted. Students cannot enjoy anything that is not violent or 'cool'. They cannot concentrate on anything like this for too long, or else their heads explode," he said with a teasing voice underlying complete seriousness.

Vivaldi chuckled at the familiar tone. "Indeed. But, should you find such a student, surely that student is not as useless as the ones you imagine."

Severus adopted a thoughtful look, turning pages in the book of music. "I suppose. Yes. Should I find such a student with enough discipline and enjoyment to learn an instrument to the expertise as say, Lily or myself, then I suppose he or she would not be useless."

He shifted his eyes to the composer and smirked. "I suppose you are thinking of this prodigy whose name I will never know."

Vivaldi looked scandalized, his mouth wide open and his eyebrows creased. "Of course you two will meet! I believe he just does not want you to know of him. I had been giving my student time."

Although Vivaldi probably did not realize it, he revealed even more about his mysterious student. The student was probably not Slytherin, because Severus was quite pleasant, or as pleasant as _Snape_ could be, when it came to his Slytherins. Most Slytherins would jump at the chance to make Severus proud. That narrowed it to all males in Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor.

Severus needed to dig deeper. "So has his magic improved?"

"Oh yes! Very much so! I know my student cannot tell as much, but my student's levels are much higher than when I first met him. I can tell," he winked. Severus was sure that Vivaldi only knew the boy's magic levels because he was a portrait. Had Antonio been a real person, Hogwarts would have certainly not told him of the boy's increasing magic. Without urging him, Vivaldi continued. "And my student has a wonderful aptitude for language! He reminds me of a young you."

Severus paused. He remembered himself when he had met Vivaldi. He was not a morally honest person back then. He still wasn't. Severus hoped the protégé was not like him, because one stubborn cynical genius was enough. Sighing, he asked, "In what way does he remind you of me?"

Vivaldi had a pensive look on his face, and he started tapping his index finger on his bottom lip in deep thought. "Well, my student is very talented. At first, my student did not consider having talent. I think my student still does not realize how incredibly talented he is. Like you. My student even looks a bit like you, in some ways. My student is sneaky but incredibly honorable. My student is very much like you, once I think about it."

Severus, hearing Antonio's constant referring to the boy as 'my student', grew annoyed. "Antonio, not to be rude, but I already know 'your student' is a boy. Have you not given him a name?" he asked. He knew Vivaldi would not tell him the student's name if he did not want to be found, but surely Vivaldi had given him a nickname. He gave names to _everyone_. He gave names to people he liked, to people he did not like, and random people he saw.

Antonio frowned. "You are right, Gato. I have been meeting with him for so long, and yet I still have not given him a name! I really should, but I just cannot think of anything."

Severus was surprised. Vivaldi, at a loss for words? Antonio always had a name for everything, and hearing this made him wonder what his student was like. "If you tell me more about him, I may be able to help you."

Vivaldi shook his head. "Gato, I hope you are not trying to pry information from me. I know how talkative I can be, and I really do not want to lose my student's trust."

"Yes, then I guess it cannot be helped. Well, good luck with 'your student'," Severus said, picking up his cello and bow. When Vivaldi did not respond, Severus played another piece, followed by another and another. He enjoyed Vivaldi's helpful comments and the magical enhancements of the closet to make it acoustic. By the time second period came around, his headache had lessened to a dull pulse rather than skull-cracking thuds.

Right as he was about to leave, a short word from Vivaldi stopped him. "My friend, I have something you will want to see, but I cannot show you."

"Antonio? What is it?"

"Don't ask why, but…are you free tonight?" Severus narrowed his eyes but otherwise had no outward show of suspicion.

"I will see."

* * *

Harry and Ron followed Hermione to their first class, but Harry's stomach felt extremely uncomfortable. He laughed when he saw that Ron had the same feeling and facial expression. "Wow, that was crazy," Ron moaned, holding his stomach. Harry silently agreed. He did not trust himself not to throw up if he opened his mouth.

"It's your own fault for drinking so much without stopping," Hermione criticized. Despite her words, she laughed a bit.

"Yeah, but you're supposed to stop us when we do something stupid," Ron said, falling into his seat and groaning.

Hermione rolled her eyes and decided not to remark on the numerous times she had told them to slow down throughout their contest. Harry smirked when Ron groaned again. This was great. His friends seemed casual around him again, and there were no accusations, false or otherwise.

The rest of the day was a careless imitation of a school day, because it seemed all three were happy and energetic at the end of it. Not even Snape, with his scathing comments, could bring them down. Harry visited Vivaldi during his first free period, happy and uncharacteristically giddy. "Hello, Antonio!"

Vivaldi blinked and grinned. "Oh, you seem happy today. Did something happen?"

"Do I need a reason to be happy?" he answered, eagerly taking out his violin. Vivaldi laughed and shook his head, making his white locks fly back and forth. "Of course not!"

Vivaldi observed Harry for a few minutes, until the boy took a second to change music. "A thought occurred to me earlier in the day. Have you noticed a change in your magic? At all?"

Harry looked at him through the corner of his eye and he flipped the book on the stand to a new page. "No, I have not. Why?"

"After all this time, I think your magic would have strengthened…hm. I wonder…"

Harry paused, holding his violin at a lower incline and his bow down. "What?" he asked, bconfused.

"I wonder, if I could help you discover your power. Surely, there is a quiet store within you, and you need to realize it! Come back tonight, and I will find a way to help you," he said, waving the back of his hand toward Harry in a quiet dismissal. Harry blinked and put the violin away. He rarely left the room before he needed to, so this was unexpected and new. However, the composer seemed to be deep in thought, wanting to be left alone. Quietly, he left, and found his friends in the library. They welcomed him heartily, but asked him nothing of where he had been. Out of everything, he felt this was the best they had done for him this year.

* * *

Severus came back to his closet that night to an excited composer. Vivaldi was practically bouncing off the edges of his frame, unaware of the scrutiny he received. Severus's attention lingered on the damaged frame and lackluster paint before moving and settling on why Vivaldi was so happy. "Did something happen today?" he asked, putting his expert fingers on the wooden frame.

"I spoke with my student!" he said, practically shouting in enthusiasm. Severus 'hmmed' and scratched at the sliver of wood that was starting to fall off. He frowned at it, and heard Antonio's impatient cough.

Severus raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, ignoring Antonio's questioning glance. "Yes, usually teachers do speak to their students at some point, if at least, to teach them. I had assumed you both had spoken to each other before." Vivaldi laughed at the sarcasm, forgetting Severus's peculiar behavior.

"I spoke with my student about his magic, and he says he has not noticed any change!"

"Yes…?"

"That means that something is blocking his magic! Think about it, Gato. If all the music my student has created has not affected him, the block must be extremely strong. He plays, at least, an hour every day! Why is there a block? Is it even a block? Maybe there is something else inhibiting it. So many questions. I suppose this might make you happy."

Severus sighed. He had no earthly idea how a block on Vivaldi's student would make him happy. However, as a man of intellect, he adored a challenge. He took a chair and regally sat down, staring the composer in the eye. "Do you care to elaborate?"

"I actually think that tonight will be a good night to meet him."

"Indeed?" Severus thought about it. It would satisfy his curiosity, for he had been thinking of the mystery student for the majority of the day since he spoke with Vivaldi in the morning. He was a bit disappointed, only because he didn't have the chance to break the identity of the mystery student himself and had to instead rely on Vivaldi to give him his answers.

"Yes, of course! As soon as possible!"

"Is this why you asked if I was free tonight? Antonio, it is almost ten in the evening, and I will not allow a student to break curfew. Is there any other time, maybe during the day or in the morning?"

"In the morning would be best. But I can have him meet you real late, so no other teachers will find him—"

"No, I will not support the breaking of the rules."

Vivaldi sighed, an unfamiliar action on his part. "Gato, then when can he meet you? I know you make students serve detentions until curfew every day this week, as you do every week, and my student is busy this weekend. His free periods do not coincide with any of your breaks!"

If this conversation continued in this fashion, Severus thought that he would not need to meet Vivaldi's student to know who he was. Vivaldi had given him an obvious clue, ruling out half of the student body. Coupled with the fact that it was not a Slytherin boy, it narrowed considerably. He needed more time to discover the student's identity, without the composer's help. Severus was quite sure that although Vivaldi's mindless clues were helpful, he could solve this on his own. Thinking this, he glanced once again at the derelict condition of the frame and the colors inside. "Antonio, how about this: I will meet him next week. I can cancel all detentions on Monday."

Vivaldi didn't seem happy about it, but accepted the proposition. "It will do—"

"However, I am quite sure that your student can survive without you for a few days."

"What?" Antonio asked, abandoning any manners he might have had. "Why would he have to?"

"Ten years in a dirty, dusty closet has not done anything good for your frame or your colors. Tonight, I am dropping you off at a man known for restoring priceless masterpieces. You are no less," he said, picking Vivaldi's portrait off the wall against his protests.

"My student!"

"Can wait, I am quite sure. Now, you'll be back by the end of the week. Probably."

When Harry went to the Room that night, he was surprised to find a blank wall where a portrait usually hung. He swiveled around the room, looking for Vivaldi's portrait. He frowned, and thought of needing the composer _now_. He grinned when he saw a framed picture appeared on the blank wall. "Vivaldi! Where were you?" he asked, looking at the portrait. It continued to stare ahead, not answering. He paused for a second, looking at the picture critically. "What is this?" he asked no one, putting a finger on the portrait.

"Vivaldi?" Harry started to worry. "Hey! What's going on?" he looked at the medium, and saw no paint. Even the frame was different, this being a light-colored wood of meager quality. The actual picture seemed a print copy, like a photograph…but even wizarding photographs spoke! Over the next hour, he tried different things, from asking the room (several times) for Vivaldi, to leaving the room and coming back seconds later to find the printed copy. He eventually gave up, not practicing at all.

Once outrageous theories started circulating through his troubled mind, he could not concentrate on the notes. The week continued in the same way, Harry checking the room every chance he could, only playing for a few minutes before the worry for Vivaldi set in.

At the end of the week, Harry was thankful and surprised to find Vivaldi at his old place in the room. The unexpected absence had unnerved him so very much, and he was a little angry that he had no forewarning. He was also wondering what happened, and whether he should be worried about the portrait's wellbeing. Harry stood in the doorway for a few minutes in silent annoyance before deciding that, even though he didn't want to sound impatient, waiting for Vivaldi to say something was too boring. He opened the violin case, unzipping and unbuttoning in fast jerky movements, but before he could pick up his violin, Vivaldi interrupted him. "How you do you go around the school without being seen?" he asked curiously. Harry supposed Vivaldi knew how annoyed he was, so swept his anger to the side to focus on the composer's curious question instead.

"I have a cloak that makes me invisible, and a map that shows everyone in the castle," Harry said without caution.

Vivaldi looked thoughtful before asking to see the map. Harry took the map, a constant companion, and said the necessary words to make it reveal the castle. When it unfurled, Antonio gasped quietly.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, looking at the map critically. Nothing seemed worthy of Vivaldi's surprise.

Vivaldi merely brushed it off. "Never mind, continue playing." He was obviously still interested, because he was still looking at the map, now on a desk that had appeared, with a thoughtful face.

After a few fast sloppy, etudes, Antonio impatiently told him to stop. "Why?" Harry asked. The command from Vivaldi was not so impatient, as it was anxious, so he supposed it did not have to do with why his notes and rhythm were so inaccurate and his tone deafeningly amateurish.

"Just come here," he answered, not explaining himself further. Harry shrugged and gently put the violin in its case. He walked over to Vivaldi, noticing the bareness of the previously cluttered room.

"Did something happen?" Harry asked, wondering what could have set him off. Vivaldi shook his head, and looked up at Harry through the corner of his eye. Antonio wrung his hands fretfully around his frilly sleeves, making them wrinkled beyond the repair of muggle means. His eye twitched again toward Harry, and he sighed. Harry approached cautiously, wondering what had happened to make Vivaldi, _this Vivaldi_, so nerve-wrecked.

"Harry, I want to help you, but I cannot help you myself. May I ask for your assistance?" he asked, the perfect picture of helplessness with a tinge of excitement. Harry bit his own lip in apprehension. What could the task be? What did Vivaldi think could help Harry?

"You see, you have this map, and I must ask that you leave it here, only for tonight. You will have it tomorrow, I promise. You can even clear it, to make sure no one who comes into the room will use it." Harry looked at him, worried.

He cocked his head to the side in confusion. "Do you need it?" He asked.

Vivaldi paused, as if carefully choosing and picking his words. "I—Harry, I need you to find something for me, because there are no portraits there, and I have no means of getting there anyway. Go to the Astronomy Tower, and there you will find what you need."

Harry started nodding, taking in every word. "But why do I need to leave my map?" He asked. After all, going around at night, especially to the Astronomy Tower, where teachers particularly patrolled looking for snogging teenagers, was like a suicide mission to him without his map to warn him of other people.

"The map will interfere. Trust me on this, Harry. You leave the map to find what you need."

Harry thought of how ludicrous the idea sounded. However, he could tell how incredibly fretful Vivaldi acted, and did not want to make his worried condition any worse. Vivaldi seemed to like the idea that Harry would have to relinquish the map as much as Harry himself did. So, with a sigh, he cleared the map and laid it on the table.

"So…I'll be back tomorrow for the map," he said, with a small smile. He didn't want Vivaldi to feel guilty at all. Vivaldi breathed a small sigh of relief and Harry's smile widened when he saw how much lighter the portrait's subject seemed to be. He didn't feel like spoiling it to ask why he had been missing for more than a week, so he walked away with his unanswered questions. He found he didn't mind.

That same night, Harry nervously scouted the area around, wondering for the umpteenth time why he had not asked his friends to come with him. Sure, he did not want them in trouble, but he also did not want to do this alone. He growled when he remembered why he was there in the first place.

He crept around a corner, making sure there was no one there. Assuring himself, he stepped away from the wall and walked more openly with his cloak draped closely on him. He tried to walk quietly, but Harry could swear he could hear every echoing step against the stone floor.

He was on one of the higher floors, far above a quick escape route to Gryffindor tower. Harry was thinking about giving up. It was a stupid idea in the first place. He remembered that Vivaldi never specifically told him what to look for, and when he went back to ask him, the composer was gone. He even tried to remember the alternate route Vivaldi once told him of, but he could not remember it at all. He ended up wandering the Astronomy Tower, dodging couples and teachers looking for couples.

Harry started to wonder how the map could be an impediment. Was there a person that Vivaldi did not want him to meet, if Harry had seen the name on the map? Surely, if Pettigrew or something like that showed up, Harry would instantly go there to attack the person. Or maybe there was someone who Vivaldi wanted him to meet, that Harry would not usually want to meet.

He dodged another couple, stunned when he saw a Gryffindor scarf on the floor of the girl, and a Malfoy practically eating her face. He had heard rumors of Draco's talent with the ladies, but had never seen it firsthand. He could feel himself blush for finding such a scene worthy of major controversy, and moved on, desperate to leave as soon as possible. If he at least went through the entire tower, he could honestly tell Vivaldi that he had tried his best. He finally reached the top, and started heading down.

Relieved that he could go back now, he was too shocked to do anything when his cloak was pulled completely off his head.

* * *

Severus Snape had infinite patience when he called for it, which was mostly never. After placing the new, clean and grime-free portrait on the wall, Vivaldi would not say a word. Severus even apologized. He _apologized_! Severus Snape never apologizes! He cursed Vivaldi for being a stubborn mule, childish as any first year. He was an immature ten-year-old in the body of a man, at least twenty-five.

With his slightly annoyed thoughts, he flew through the halls in his cat form, just to make sure no one would notice him. It was significantly easier to run through the halls quietly as a cat than a human. Once he reached the base of the tower, he slowed down, taking the chance to find anyone in the wrong. He would enjoy this night, even if he spent most of it looking for something that might not even be there.

He caught two pairs snogging already, and he felt happier, or least less annoyed, than before. Each person caught lost twenty points and he gave each a detention with Filch to make it worse. He slunk through the corridors, a small black shadow beneath the torchlights.

Even though the light of the torches lit the corridors, his lithe form was invisible to mortal eyes under the shadows. He pawed across the stone, growing bored with each minute that passed. He felt a growl in his throat when he saw Draco, his _godson_, consorting with a _Gryffindor_. House pride on the side, Severus knew this was dangerous. He could not just leave them be, but he also could not take points from his own great house. He would have to confront Draco, because, thinking back on other times, this was not the first time he found the boy snogging in the Astronomy Tower. Last time, it was a seventh year Ravenclaw who he found crying during his class the next day. He had little sympathy for her, because most girls knew how much of a player Draco loved to be.

He transformed and made sure his boots made enough noise to scare the teenagers away. He heard gasps and the rustle of cloaks. "Draco—"

"Shut up!"

And with that, he changed into his cat form to see them scurrying off to their respective dorms. Satisfied with that outcome, he continued his usual route, pausing before he reached the top. He heard a rustle, a quiet, sneaky rustle. It, in no way, resembled the rustle of Draco's cloak. He couldn't be completely sure, and he hoped Draco had not come back for something. Severus did not fancy having to lecture his godson, but _really_! The boy was so careless these days.

He paused when he heard the rustle, seemingly by his ear. He turned abruptly, but saw nothing. Severus growled low in his throat. _Potter! _And changing into his human form for the second, and hopefully last, time that day, grabbed that dratted invisibility cloak right off the shoulders of the little brat.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Once again, I have waited and procrastinated. Truly, I am sorry. As for this chapter, I hope it is not too confusing. Really, there are no notes, other than a great thanks to Milky Etoile for the long review. So, all review are welcome and greatly appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Musical Magic**

Written by Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

It seemed that time itself froze when the green of Harry's eyes met the fathomless black of Severus Snape's. A growl tore itself from the man's throat, scaring Harry more than any encounters he had ever had with Voldemort. In a split second, when every human instinct shouted at him to either run or fight, he did neither. His legs were frozen with fear, not with the idea of detentions with Snape. Hell, he could endure thousands of endless detentions with the man until the day he died, and then some. No, it was the irrational fear that somehow, the man, _this man,_ could unravel the truth by just staring into his open eyes.

Harry's mind whirled with thoughts, trying to focus on something else, other then the irrefutable fact that _this man was his father!_ He did not care if Snape found out his talent in music, his estranged relationship with the Dursleys, or any other thing in his life.

His mind found a safe haven in his memories and concentrated on his room. Not the room of requirement, but_ his_ room, of music, warmth and an atmosphere that had him intoxicated off the pure magic of it. He thought of Vivaldi's hearty laugh and the details of the various little ornaments, and the _music_. His breathing and heart rate, erratic and rapid, calmed to a somewhat normal rate with the image of his room.

Only a second passed in which all his turbulent thoughts calmed into a single thought, and the professor before him could only blink. "Potter," he growled with intensity far more passionately hateful than Harry had ever heard.

"I'm not erm,—that is, I was sleep-walking?" he tried quite unsuccessfully.

Harry almost yelped in surprise when his professor grabbed him by the back of his shirt and pushed him forward. "Listen here, Potter. You _will_ have detention with me on Monday at seven and for the next two weeks. If I catch you wandering around after hours again, you will have much worse than a few detentions. Twenty points from Gryffindor, and another twenty for that abysmal lie."

Snape released his shirt and glared one last time before stalking back to his dungeons. "And I hope you take my threat seriously, Potter." With that, the man swooped away in all his black-robed glory.

Harry let out a breath of relief once he was gone. He picked up his cloak, which for some reason did not leave in his professor's hands, and cautiously walked toward the Gryffindor tower. He would rather not have another detention, be it from his potions professor or anyone else.

He cursed Vivaldi's absentmindedness. He could not believe the man sent him on a crazy hunt for some unknown _thing_. Along with that, he had been stupid enough to leave his map. What if this were the day that one of Voldemort's goons snuck into Hogwarts? Where would that have left him? Harry only just realized the ramifications for going into another stupid adventure. Was there even a reason? To find some random _thing_, something he did not even know of, was that reason enough? Harry shook his head. He should have at least asked for some clarification, on the directions or what the _THING _actually was!

On his trek to the dorms, his mind concentrated only on what the _thing _was. Why did Vivaldi need it? Why, oh _why_, could the man not have asked Snape to do it? The thrice-damned composer was supposedly close to him! From what he knew and learned, Snape would do anything to make Vivaldi proud of him. Harry growled low in his throat as he neared his bed. He did not bother to change out of his clothes, only because he was too exhausted and angry. He let another irritated growl out when he realized he would have to see the composer, if he wanted the map back.

As for Snape knowing he was Harry's father, he could only hope the man had not seen anything incriminating. Fortunately, he had had enough time to conjure a thought of his room. Harry's heart stopped for a millisecond. Oh dear god, he hoped Snape was not familiar with the room. He remembered seeing a memory…but he decided to dwell on it tomorrow, when his mind would be clearer.

Lying on his back, Harry fell asleep and had no dreams.

* * *

Severus had to be honest when he considered Potter. He tried using a wordless _legilimens,_ but it had reaped nothing. For a second, he thought he saw something suspicious, but then the boy's mind just blanked! It cleared everything out, except one thought. And that one thought had Severus up all night.

Severus knew those chairs. He was familiar with the cream-colored cushions, wooden-paneled floor and crimson red walls. He even knew those knickknacks, most brought there courtesy of Lily; the metronomes, the statuettes, and even the fragile china figurines he had once broken 'just because they were staring at him'. He knew the polished black grand piano, a testament to his own talent with the pianoforte. Severus knew of the little violin-shaped blue bottles, gifts for Lily when she graduated. How Potter had knowledge of those was a mystery to him. Out of the entire room, the only thing he did not know was the violin. He remembered it clearly in Potter's mind. An old dilapidated little thing, it was splintered and a stranger to varnish for seemingly its entire lifespan.

Once back in his rooms, he walked to his closet and opened it. It was the same as always, with the cello, the chairs, the walls, floors…and yet, it struck an amazing resemblance to the room about which Potter seemed so insistent to think.

He looked at a sleeping composer, safe within his newly restored frame. Severus knew, loathe he was to admit it, that Potter could very well be Vivaldi's mystery student. He rejected the entire idea of it, but there was no other way that Potter could have known of the room with such exact detail!

His thoughts swirled with misgivings and suspicions, and he found he could not imagine Potter as Vivaldi's prodigy. Potter was a no-talent obnoxious little boy who knew nothing about the reality around him. Severus thought he knew Vivaldi well enough to be certain that Potter was not the type of student he would take on. He always thought Vivaldi respected students who were thoughtful, humble, and well, not Harry Potter-esque. He walked to his bed, a soft mattress magically enhanced for comfort, and did not bother to change. He had too many thoughts fighting for attention, and it seemed that no amount of occlumency could help him organize his mind.

By the time morning dawned, Severus realized he had not slept a wink. Grumpily, he stretched and shuffled to his kitchen where a hot cup of coffee waited for him. Downing a fourth of the bitter liquid, he set it down and sighed. Although he was British and proud of it, he cared nothing for tea, despite the many times Albus had tried forcing it upon him.

It was only a Saturday, so he had no classes. He was thankful for the reprieve, because he doubted he could survive if he had to teach and uncover the mystery of Harry Potter at the same time. Frustrated, he took the coffee mug and dumped the rest of it into his mouth, regardless of the heat. "Not that bad," he muttered to himself. His tongue was a little burnt, but he would live.

Severus considered confronting the composer, but he did not feel up to it. If Potter truly was the prodigy, Vivaldi's star student, Severus did not think he could handle it. Yet, it seemed the only explanation…that is, unless Potter saw the room, but Vivaldi did not talk to him. It was an explanation, and one that Severus could easily believe.

"...how could he have seen the room in the first place?"

In a few seconds, Severus stood before Vivaldi, who was still peacefully sleeping. "Antonio," he said loudly. The man twitched a bit, but nothing else. Having little patience, he shouted, "Antonio!"

"_Si, si_…ah, Gatto, is something bothering you?" Vivaldi asked, looking up at him with curious yet weary eyes.

"Can someone get into this closet…other than the way your student takes, and other than my door?" he asked, getting straight to the point.

The composer did not seem to expect that, and merely tilted his head before answering. "Ah, _si_, there is a way. It is a little complicated, but quite easy to remember once one has gone several times. Focosina got in that way. However, this is _il__castello__magico_, and there have been instances where someone can get into a room without the usual entrances," he said quite seriously.

Severus looked at him suspiciously, careful to note the gleam in Vivaldi's eye and the upward turn of his otherwise stoic lips. "Hm…well, as you said, since this is a magical castle…Hogwarts has been known to offer entrance to one who asks. Yes, thank you, Antonio. I will be back this afternoon, and maybe I'll try my hand at the pianoforte again."

"Then I will look forward to it, Gatto." The composer waved, and Severus let his hand go up a little in a semblance of a wave. On his way out, he summarized his thoughts into something he could think of without creating a headache for himself. One, Potter may or may not be Vivaldi's student, because there are other ways he could have gotten to the room. Two, there was no other evidence of Potter being the mystery student. Three, Severus highly doubted the boy would appreciate music as his mother had.

Confident in his theory, he went to fetch essays he had yet to grade. Sitting at his desk with the messy parchments before him, he realized could not take his mind off the mystery of Harry Potter when he read a comment he just wrote on an essay: _See that your potter improves, or I will never be able to read this drivel_. Firstly, he wrote 'Potter' instead of 'penmanship', and secondly, perhaps the worst aspect of the comment, it was too nice! It seemed he would have no reprieve from his thoughts until he settled them

Monday morning came. Severus groggily sat at the Head Table, uncomprehending of his surroundings. His head spun with the thoughts of Potter, Vivaldi, and more things he could not identify. He even made use of his pensieve, the night before, to observe his memories of the boy. He noted anything of importance, mostly how the boy acted.

This morning, he watched for strange behavior in his students. Draco looked normal, just as he had the day before. Severus would have to talk to him at some point, though. He looked toward the Gryffindor table.

"Potter," he growled under his breath. The boy caused him sleepless nights, and there he was, happily chatting away at his two cohorts. At this, Severus wondered if perhaps the other two had a part in whatever adventure Potter tried to have. If so, it would be fair for him to give both Granger and Weasley detentions. Surely, Potter should receive another detention, for protecting his fellow rule-breaking miscreants. He smirked.

"I'm not sure if I like that look, Severus," Minerva said jokingly, smiling at him. Severus broke out of his thoughts to see Minerva with a questioning look on her face.

"Indeed, Minerva?"

"Why yes. You seem to be smiling…wait," she laughed, "it's more like a smirk. What are you planning?"

Severus' smirk took on an evil undertone, a feat he had accomplished when he was younger. If he was doing it right, he should look dangerously feral right now. "Nothing, Minerva, nothing at all." He looked back at the Gryffindor table to see Potter storming away. He filed this into the back of his mind for later investigation.

* * *

Monday morning brought a half-angry, half-tired Harry Potter to the Gryffindor table. Ron and Hermione were already there, having _already _instigated a verbal fight. Harry ignored them and sat down. He ate a bit of scrambled eggs and a pancake before he broke into their argument.

"You know, Snape looks kinda scary from here," he said. Ron looked up, and wrinkled his nose.

"You're right, Harry. It looks like he's getting ready to give someone detention."

"Oh please, Ronald. Professor Snape would not smile like that just because he is thinking about detention," Hermione said rolling her eyes.

Harry smiled, "Yeah, he would never smile. As for now, I think it might just be some sort of mood altering charm." Ron laughed, but Hermione did not.

"Speaking of mood altering…where were you last night?" she asked.

Harry creased his brows gradually. "Excuse me?" He looked to Hermione's concerned facial expression to Ron's gobsmacked one, and felt himself growing angry. "I can't believe you're still thinking that! I thought we came to an understanding!" Harry whispered angrily.

Hermione opened her mouth to speak again, "Harry—" but by then, he was already gone, and the eyes of most of the table were on her.

"Really, Hermione? I thought you dropped that," Ron said with a frown.

Hermione sniffled a bit. "I thought so too, until yesterday, when he was so angry and distracted about something. I worry about him. When you told me that he was missing in the middle of the night…if we did come to an understanding, why couldn't he just tell us? He just seems apathetic about everything else in his life. Whatever he's doing in that room, it's causing him to change his sleeping habits, and when was the last time you've talked to him about quidditch? He's lost Sirius, and spending the summer with the Dursleys couldn't have helped him at all. He has been acting odd all year. Now, if it's innocuous, I'm all for it, but I can hardly think of anything good that could cause him to be so detached from everything else in his life."

Ron patted her on the back and helped her stand up. "Let's get going to our first class," he said. After they had grabbed their bags, they left the Great Hall, and Ron continued the conversation. "With Harry, he's always been a bit of a loner. Do you remember the night we first found him in the Room of Requirement alone? That yearbook…it affected him somehow. I don't mean like Riddle's diary. Do you remember when he saw that picture of his mum?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, I remember. He looked, I don't know, a bit stunned. He looked a little pained as well. Do you suppose that that has anything to do with his disappearances?"

"I think it might. For now, just let up. He doesn't seem to be in any serious trouble, and it's not like he has any symptoms of those muggle drugs, right?"

"Not really. Other than the dissociation, he is mostly normal. Yesterday, he seemed angry about something, but nothing has happened lately. There's something he is not telling us, and I have no idea whether everything's better off without us knowing, or if perhaps we could help him somehow. He is a little stubborn. As for symptoms, he was quite lucid when we first caught him, so I guess not. But, if he seems dizzy, loses weight, his grades drop too low, or anything else, we are _at least_ going to confront him."

Ron nodded in agreement. "That sounds reasonable enough. Meanwhile, don't treat him any differently. How would you act if Harry and I accused you of doing drugs?" Ron snorted in a way that somewhat resembled a laugh, and Hermione hit his shoulder with her book bag.

"You both know I am too clever to be caught using, if I ever did," she replied playfully. "However, if you were using, we would know straight away. Harry would notice that kind of thing, and I would recognize the symptoms since you wouldn't know how to hide them."

"You're right; I would never be able to hide that kind of thing. Isn't that a relief for you?" They both entered their classroom, each taking a seat on either side of Harry. He did not try speaking to them, and they let him keep his silence.

In her mind, Hermione knew something was up. He was holding secrets, and though keeping information from Ron and Hermione might not have terrible consequences, the pressure of keeping secrets to oneself might.

* * *

Harry slouched low in the cushioned chair in the Room of Requirement. He was apathetic, merely lazing around the Room because he had nothing better to do during his free period. He fingered the edges of his map, keeping a lazy eye on Hogwart's inhabitants. He had not bothered visiting Vivaldi the day before, Sunday, mostly because, well, he was being childish. Harry gave himself reasons for his bad mood. Not only did Vivaldi disappear without a word, the man also gave no reason for said disappearance, _and _sent him on a crazy chase that ended up with him in detention.

He looked sideways at the composer. Vivaldi seemed calm enough, humming to himself in his sleep. The man did not seem to notice anything amiss.

He abruptly stood from his seat, and started pacing. Vivaldi was not the only person causing him troubles, he thought. Hermione and Ron! Now, what was she doing bringing that subject up again? Hadn't they already _had _a conversation about it? Didn't he tell her, reassure her that nothing was happening? And Ron, whose side was he on? "Argh!" he shouted to no one.

"Harry?" Vivaldi interrupted him. Harry turned around to see Vivaldi's tired eyes on him, the same concerned eyes he swore he saw on Hermione's face only about a week before.

"Vivaldi," he said with a cold tone.

The portrait's concern burned through the paint, and he turned to look at Harry head-on. "Harry, you must trust me. Everything I do, I do for the better," he said in a way that Harry always imagined Dumbledore would have.

With that thought, Harry could not help but glare at the portrait. "Snape caught me! SNAPE!" He angrily twisted around, so that he would not have to look at the portrait. He clenched the map in his hand to ensure that he had it, and stormed out, robes swirling behind him.

Harry went back to his dorm, and looked around the room. Despite what he had previously thought, the late night visits had a heavy toll on his body. "I'll take a nap," he said aloud to himself. He threw the map into his trunk and shut it with a bang. "Just a nap," he said again, eyeing his bed. The bed, however comfortable and cozy, was not what he needed. He had a class in a few minutes, and if it was too comfortable, he might never want to wake. Grumbling to himself, he went to the common room and took one of the more uncomfortable armchairs. Even though it was lumpy and a little rough, Harry fell asleep within minutes.

"Harry," a voice called out to him.

Harry looked around, and saw her. "M-mum?" She looked to him and took his small hand. He blinked and looked down to his body, proportionally shrunk. For some reason, this seemed right, to be this small, with his mum. "Yes, Harry dear. Were you always this cute?"

"Mum," the child said, looking completely comfortable in her presence. This was how things were supposed to be. A hand gently squeezed his other hand, and he looked up. His father…? The black-haired man looked nothing how he expected. Where were the glasses, the swagger, the hazel eyes—where were they?

"Honey, take care of him," she said, lifting the boy into her arms. She hugged him tightly before handing him over to the man he did not recognize. "Of course," he said, willingly taking the bundle. "I will." Harry watched as his mother kissed him on the cheek and did the same to the man. She smiled sadly and started to walk away.

"No!" he shouted, "No, no, no!"

"Hush, we will see her again. Hush." Unexpectedly, he did. Harry sighed, whether from relief or despondency, he did not know.

"Harry," she said again, but her voice was unfamiliar. He looked up. Was she back? It was not how he imagined her voice. It was so…authoritative, actually. He could not associate that kind of voice with his mother, but the voice, as it rang through the room, sounded tenderer. It cared about him.

"Harry," another voice said, but it was a man's voice. He looked around, but there was no man. He looked to his mother again to find that she was gone. He felt hands on his shoulders, shaking him.

He jerked forward to see Ron and Hermione. He sighed and closed his eyes again when he realized that the dream, however wonderful or confusing it was, was not reality. "Harry?" Hermione asked again, and Harry knew that her voice could not be his mother's voice. He had never heard her speak, and it hurt him, just a bit.

"Yes?" he asked her wearily.

"You skipped class. Were you sleeping the entire time?" Ron asked.

Harry glanced to his watch and, indeed, he had missed last period. "Yeah, I was," he said, rubbing the back of his head in sleepiness and embarrassment. "I don't know what happened."

"You don't think it's from lack of sleep?" Hermione asked. Harry felt the charge against him, in her voice. _"You are hiding something. Let us help you." _He could hear her…

Harry looked back at her accusingly. "I'm supposed to be mad at you, right?" Hermione blinked a few times before adopting a confused expression. Harry sighed in response. "I'm just tired, guys," he turned to Hermione, "and I don't appreciate your accusations."

Hermione did not answer. It seemed, for once, she was speechless. In her place, Ron said, "Harry, it's almost dinner. Why don't we just go to the Great Hall and eat supper there? Let's just not worry about anything right now."

Without a word, Harry nodded and followed them to the Great Hall, a silent Hermione in tow. Supper was a quiet affair, at least Harry's section of the table. Harry finished his supper quickly without another word to Hermione and Ron. He walked around the school, wondering whether he should go back to the Room of Requirement. Eventually, he supposed, he would have to go to his detention, but it did not seem important now. Harry sighed, knowing he would have to confront Vivaldi about his trickery, for that was what it was. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered angrily. He did not really know what he was calling stupid, but just saying something felt good.

"Stupid Vivaldi, stupid Snape, stupid…" Harry muttered further. He knew at where he was directing his anger. Growling, he decided he needed to go to his detention. He hunched his shoulders, shuffling his feet all the way to the dungeons. His anger left him on his journey down, leaving him tired and spent. He wondered what his detention would be. The worst would be cutting up ingredients, he figured.

* * *

"What? You are not serious."

"Completely."

"You want to sit in on my student's detention? Apart from the fact that he will be able to _see_ you, you have no reason to be there."

Vivaldi rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "Severus Snape, just let me come! I told you to have Monday free to meet my student!"

Severus crossed his arms in an identical response. "So you are punishing me?"

Antonio let his arms fall and for a split second, they just hung there. Then, he grabbed the edges of his gleaming frame and looked Severus in the eye. "So what if I am punishing you? Do you think it is fair for me to be cooped up in here?"

Relenting, Severus sighed. "Fine. But I'm hanging you behind my desk, and you are not to say a word."

"That works!" Vivaldi said happily, clapping his hands in excitement. Severus rolled his eyes and levitated the portrait off the wall, leading it to his classroom to stick it behind his teaching desk.

"Not a word," he warned one last time. Vivaldi grinned and dragged his forefinger and thumb across his lips in imitation of a closing zipper. Severus felt that rolling his eyes would eventually cause them to fall out and so instead turned around and sat at his desk with his back to the composer.

"You did tell your prodigy student not to come today, right?" Severus asked, once he thought about what Vivaldi had mentioned. When he received no answer, he swiveled around in his seat to see Vivaldi lazily looking at his nails. Severus rapped on his frame, and Vivaldi looked up. Smirking, he tapped on his lips and returned to looking at his nails.

Severus looked up, as if seeking an answer to 'why?' from the heavens, and turned back to face the classroom. Vivaldi had been acting odd all weekend, and though he'd never say it, he would probably do anything to make the man feel better. Not too long later, he heard a knock.

"Enter," he said, wordlessly making the door unlock. He glared as Potter entered the room. The boy had been acting odd as well ever since he returned to Hogwarts, and Severus did not fail to note it. He first concretely knew the odd behavior in Potter when he did not defend himself in one potions class earlier in the year. It was strange to him, but he was certain that Potter had not been the culprit. After all, he himself had been the one to throw the ingredients, if only to get a rise out of the boy. But against all expectations, the boy accepted his punishment without a word in edgewise! What happened to that Gryffindor bravado and idiocy?

Usually, he would not stoop to childish pranks, but this was a special case. Potter had been sneaking around before anyone had arrived in the Hogwarts Express. He had hoped that Ms. Granger would realize something amiss, realize something. She was a sharp girl, for all her annoying traits. Even if his punishment seemed fair, wouldn't the Gryffindor in Potter make him argue about justice and innocent until proven guilty? Potter had been unusually subdued the entire year.

Right now, the boy was looking around, and his eyes seemed to concentrate on Vivaldi's portrait. "Who's the old lady?" he asked casually. Severus raised an eyebrow. For one, Vivaldi was certainly _not_ old in the portrait. More importantly, Vivaldi was most certainly a man.

"No business of yours if you can't tell by looking," he said waspishly.

"Fine," the boy answered, rolling his eyes. Angrier than usual, Snape snapped at him. "Sit _down_, Mr. Potter! Get a quill out, for I do believe you shall be writing lines for a few hours." He noted the boy's scowl and smiled to himself. Oh, how he loved making Potter's life a little harder.

He felt Potter's glares, and it made him all the happier. "You shall write, 'Despite my penchant for getting into trouble, I must desist from traipsing around the school after curfew, and I must not tell lies about the above-mentioned traipsing.'" It was ludicrous really, the lines he assigned. He really did not have much time to think about it—he had originally planned for organizing ingredients.

Potter dropped the quill as he was writing the question down. "What's the matter, Potter?" he asked impatiently. The boy was insufferable.

"N-nothing, Professsor," he said unconvincingly. If Potter was going to learn something, it was going to be about his sad attempts at lying.

"Potter, I hope you realize that lying to me is _certainly_ not the best course of action. In fact, whether you believe or not, it is the worst. Do you plan on telling me exactly what problem you have seen in your quill?"

"I'm fine, Professor," Potter said, clenching his teeth.

"Get going. About a hundred or so should suffice for tonight," he said. "And maybe only a few more if I decide to be nice. Get started, Potter."

Potter grabbed the quill from the floor and started to write. From where he sat, Severus wondered what was wrong with his writing hand. There seemed to be scars, but Severus put it out his mind. Potter wouldn't have such straight, clean cuts, not like the ones he imagine on the boy's hands…

A few hours felt like a few minutes to Severus. He noticed the lapse in time when he heard Vivaldi's snoring from behind. He glanced at the papers that he had yet to finish, and then at the Potter boy. He was still writing, probably developing a cramp.

"Potter, I will see you here tomorrow night," he said, dismissing him without another thought.

* * *

"Harry, where _were_ you? It's almost curfew!" Hermione asked emphatically once he appeared in the common room. Harry groaned. All he wanted to do was to do his homework and sleep.

"I had a detention with Snape," he said wearily, dropping on a sofa and taking his books out. As soon as he finished everything, he'd sleep.

Hermione scrutinized him with a practiced eye and lowered herself on the couch. "For what?"

Harry paused. Did he really want to tell them he was out late last night? He would be giving fuel to her crazy assumptions, and that would help no one. He was about to bite back with something offensive when Ron spoke up. "God Hermione, what is this, the Spanish Inquisition?" he asked with some humor.

She relaxed, but kept her eyes on Harry. "I was just concerned."

"I—I got a detention for skipping class, and they decided I should have it with Snape," he said tiredly, from the pressure of lying and the strain of the past few days.

Hermione quickly took her eyes off him, feeling guilty, most likely. Indeed, she then said, "Harry, I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions. Usually I get it right, but I know I make mistakes." Harry nodded and started his work without another word. He continued to ignore her for the rest of the night and proceeded up to his dorm silently.

He didn't quite understand just how _tired _he was, until he fell asleep as his head hit the pillow.

Meanwhile, Hermione wondered about Harry, just a little. Although she knew that jumping to conclusions would be a bad idea, she had a new suspicion as to what occupied Harry's time these days. After all, how long could he keep up his ruse?

Harry woke the next morning conflicted. His body felt great after a night of uninterrupted sleep, but his mind ached and raced with thoughts of detention for the next two weeks. Snape couldn't do that, could he? Every single day?

It would be impossible to avoid thinking about the man and his strange connection to himself. Eventually, he knew, he'd slip and everything would be out. He did not want Snape to know. He couldn't let him know.

If Snape ever tried to actively legilimize him, could he hold up his shields? Harry doubted he could. He would just have to learn how to occlude, just a little. Just enough to keep his secrets safe. He sighed. If only he had tried a year ago…

Breakfast was a quiet affair, with Ron to his right and Hermione to his left. Harry felt her eyes on him the entire meal. It was a continuous thing, he noticed. He could tell she was trying to be discreet about it, too. She glanced at him every now and then, especially when he tipped his head back to drink something. She had that look in her eye that meant she was thinking. These days, that meant a bad thing for Harry.

As soon as he got up, without a word, he noticed Ron sidling over to Hermione. Harry didn't know what annoyed him more; his friends' attempts at apathy towards him, or their obsession with knowing what happened on his late-night rendezvous.

"Ron, I think I have a pretty good idea about what's up with Harry," Hermione whispered. Ron's eyes widened.

"Really?"

She nodded. "We can confront him later today—"

"I thought you were gonna stop doing that," he turned to look at her. "Lately, it's like he's on edge all the time, like today's the first day he's gotten a good night's sleep. You're probably just making it worse, with all of your crazy assumptions."

Hermione didn't turn to look at him, instead apparently focusing on her meal. "This is different, Ron. And don't interrupt me." Ron sighed. "I think I have physical evidence, now."

"Are you sure?"

This time, she looked at him to give him a look. "No, I just said that for kicks. Of course I'm sure!" She sighed angrily and pulled him from the table. "I saw it, yesterday, and this morning. And now that I think of it, I saw it earlier this week too!"

"You're saying you saw it on him? Whatever it is?" he asked, walking with her away from the Great Hall.

"Yes, Ron, that's exactly what I'm saying. And I think I should ask him about it tonight. Merlin knows Harry won't be able to deal with my 'assumptions' in the middle of the day," she said, giving another pointed look.

"Fine. Tonight. Wait, so you don't think it's drugs?"

"I'm pretty sure that whatever has Harry preoccupied is not hallucinogenic, at least," she smirked. "Maybe depressing, or stimulating. It depends, really."

Ron paused. "What?"

* * *

Harry didn't once think of Vivaldi or Snape during the day. He had forgotten to do homework the day before, mostly due to his detention. And here he was, standing outside of the potions classroom, for a chance to have another detention writing lines.

He clenched his hand, feeling the scars on his right hand stretch. Did Snape know what he was doing? Harry didn't want to believe that Snape would be so cruel as to make him write those specific lines, even if they were imbedded, if he knew the past behind the words, "I must not tell lies." He just couldn't believe Snape would be so cruel…

However, once he reached the classroom, it was empty of any potions professors. Harry looked around and spied a note resting on a desk at the front of the classroom. At first, he wasn't sure it was for him—the last time he snooped, he ended up thrown across the room. Why would Snape leave a note so obviously lying on a desk when Harry was to have his detention unless the note was meant for him? He dismissed his worry when he caught his name on the parchment.

He skimmed it and scowled. "Preparing ingredients, ha, cat guts. Snape has a sense of humor. Well, that's better than writing lines," he muttered to himself. "But…where are they?" He looked around, noticing the bareness of the room even more than when he entered.

"Look in his cupboard, Harry," a voice said. Harry's head abruptly snapped up to see Vivaldi resting on a wall behind Snape's desk.

"Vivaldi? Why are you here?" Harry asked, not wanting to deal with him at all.

Vivaldi smiled a sad smile. "I asked Gatto to put me here for his student's detention."

Harry ignored him for a while, going to Snape's cupboard instead. After he had two armfuls of ingredients and tools, he walked back to a desk, the one farthest from Vivaldi. Looking intently at his task, Harry directed a question toward the composer. "Why?"

"Little Harry," he started in a pleading voice that made Harry angry and guilty at the same time, "I tried to have you meet, to interact in a setting where I could help you both, but it seems my plan has somehow gone awry. You need him. You do not want to hear it, but you need Gatto, and he needs you. Why can't you give him a chance?" Vivaldi's suggestion only made Harry angrier.

"Give him a chance? _I'm_ not the once who singled out one first year merely because that first year's _dead, supposed father_ bullied me! _I'm_ not the one who continually broke into a student's mind, not even trying to help the student understand what 'clear your mind' means. _I'm_ not the one that ignored said student when he tried to tell me that his godfather was in danger. _I'm_ not the one who—who—" and there, he choked. _"killed Sirius" _was ringing around in his head. That's what he was going to say. And he knew he was wrong. And after almost an entire summer of ignoring the man's death, it seemed to fall hard right at this moment. Did he ever truly grieve for Sirius?

Harry's head spun with more thoughts than before, depressing, destructive, and unbearable. Harry barely composed himself and decided to just ignore Vivaldi for the rest of the night. Talking to him only seemed to rile him up. He needed some kind of release, but he knew there was no way he could leave until his detention was served. "Harry, listen. Are you listening? Harry, believe me when I say I only had your and Gato's interests at heart. Harry?" The man made three more attempts at conversation, but every single one was determinedly ignored.

Harry finished his detention in record time and slowly walked back to the Gryffindor common room. Once there, he plopped onto an armchair, closed his eyes, and let out one huge, weary breath. He heard the soft footsteps of two people approaching, and he groaned in frustration when he heard Hermione's voice.

"Harry, we need to talk."


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Sorry it's taken such a long time! I had to change my hard-drive, and my computer had to practically be replaced...but thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! (remember, I love long reviews because they give me ideas and tell me whether I'm doing this somewhat correctly). Enjoy!

Disclaimer: This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Musical Magic**

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

"What is it now, Hermione?" Harry asked, too weary to conjure any spite.

Hermione opened her mouth as if to speak and then seemed to think better of it and sat down on a couch beside him. Ron followed suit, obviously confused. She leaned forward in the couch, resting her elbows on her knees and then looked straight at Harry. "Harry, I know I've been nosy—" Harry snorted. "But I'm only concerned about you. If you were in our place, you'd be worried too. Your sleep patterns are convoluted, you leave during free periods and come back giddy, and we can tell there's something going on. Ron and I might have been in the wrong for assuming without much evidence, but I think I know what's going on now."

"Merlin, Hermione!" Harry said, clutching his head. "You 'might have been in the wrong'? You 'might have been'? You were! You've been hounding me for so long, and you've had no evidence at all, save my apparent 'sleep patterns'. And good god, Hermione, I'm not just a puzzle for you to solve!"

Harry saw her lips tighten, and he knew she was about to lecture him about his 'ungratefulness'. Surprising him, she just sighed and glanced at Ron. She started again, "I was…overestimating my deductive reasoning skills, but you can't tell me there's nothing going on. I can't think of anything that you would want to keep from us so badly…except…"

Ron leaned forward as well, looking at Hermione's intense gaze directed at Harry. "Except…" he prompted her.

She took a deep breath, and, looking as if she were about to jump headfirst into a pit of acromantulas, asked, "Harry, do you have a girlfriend?"

"What?!"

"Or a boyfriend, you can tell us anything!" Hermione quickly added, backing up against the couch with her eyes wide and palms forward in a defensive pose.

Harry couldn't help it. _This _was her new theory? It started as a low chuckle in the back of his throat but grew to full-blown laughter when he saw Ron's eyes bugging out, switching from Harry to Hermione as quickly as a golden snitch. Hermione, on her part, looked like a mixture of relief and embarrassment.

"What could possibly convince you that I have a girlfriend? Or better yet, a _boyfriend_?" Harry asked between peals of laughter.

Hermione took an affronted pose. "Well, why else would you sneak out at night and stay away the _entire_ night? What else would you be doing during your free time?"

"Hermione, anything could explain that. I could be…secretly learning to apparate so I can participate in Wimbledon come May! I could be knitting socks for all the house elves in the world! I could be living it up with the portraits talking about Baroque composers! Do you realize how ridiculous your theory sounds?" He asked, not bothering to consider Hermione's embarrassment. After all, it was her fault. Ron sniggered and received a light cuff from Hermione for it. "He's made a point, Herm." Harry sniggered with him after his raucous laughter died off.

"Wimbledon is held at the end of June," she muttered. And then louder and in frustration, said, "It's not just that!"

"Then what is it?" Harry said, finally becoming a little serious. "It's not like you've found lipstick on my collar or anything incriminating."

Hermione crossed her arms and sniffed. She glanced sideways at Harry and said, "Yes, I have!"

"Impossible," Harry answered with a smile, crossing his arms as well. "Do you know why? Because I do not have a girlfriend….or a boyfriend, for that matter." Ron snickered again.

"Then explain the love bite on your neck!" She said, pointing at the junction of his jaw and his neck.

It took half a second for Ron to burst from the couch and look at the area on his neck, widening his eyes as he did. Harry looked at his friends strangely before feeling the skin she was talking about. He froze when he felt the bumpy, irritated skin, and he knew exactly what it was. _That was why Vivaldi told him to always thoroughly clean the chinrest…_

"Now explain that. Because either you have a significant other, or you're playing the viola."

Harry chuckled. She had it right. Kind of. He was tempted to just tell them that he had a girlfriend or a boyfriend. He might get away with that and have more fun out of telling them a complete lie …but then he thought of his routinely lonely nights in the Room and of the secrets eating at him, wondering why he never told his friends. And this was the perfect opportunity.

"Hermione," he started. She nodded and swatted Ron away since he was still staring at the 'hickey'. Harry took a breath and wondered how he'd go about doing this. "Hermione, I forgive you for being a nosy busy-body," he started playfully, "But I guess…I was thinking about telling you both, but you kind of made me angry after accusing me of using drugs," He noticed his hands starting to fidget and tried to use them to flatten his hair or do something else that wouldn't belie his nervousness. He glanced over at his friends and continued, "And I guess, once I think about it, I'd really like to have you know and experience the same bliss I ge—"

"Whoa, Harry!" Ron interrupted. "I really hope you know that what you're saying sounds kind of weird. Whatever you do with your, erm, significant other, I don't want to be involved." Hermione halfheartedly slapped his arm, paying more attention to Harry's fidgeting.

Wanting to finish as quickly as possible, he sat on his hands and let his opinion out in a stream of words. "I guess I'd like to share it with you, but I've always wanted to keep it to myself, because nothing good ever comes with sharing it with another person, and I just…I'll just show you." Harry jumped up and grabbed their hands, not caring about the time or curfew. This was important.

He walked quickly to the portrait and quietly snuck out. He let his friends' hands go, feeling perspiration on his own hands. Wow, he was nervous. He led them, trusting his friends to follow, and they did so without err. They silently made their way to the Room of Requirement, and as soon as he walked the preliminary three times across, opened the door to his room.

Hermione and Ron spun around to look at the entire room and glanced at Harry. "Harry, what—"

"This is my room." He walked to the chair with cream-colored cushions and slowly opened the case. "And this is my violin."

* * *

Severus Snape stood in the middle of his closet, trying to discern the difference between his room and the room in Potter's mind. Surely, it could not be the same room…if it were, what would that do to his philosophy of hating the boy? Sever knew what his room was and its importance and meaning. What was it to Potter? And how did he find it?

"Antonio," he intoned once he reached his classroom.

"Yes, Gatto?"

"Since you asked to be here again, you can supervise detention. I'll be quite busy tonight, so when Potter comes, direct him to my cupboard. He can prepare ingredients," Severus said, writing a note. He swooped away in his black robes, leaving Antonio to wonder what was going on.

"Now, to find the other entrance…" he said to himself. He was hell bent on finding that alternate route. Why did Potter even think of the room? Did the boy know the room's use? Potter couldn't know. He just couldn't. And although he had no idea how he'd go around looking for the alternate route, he had to try. He transformed and snuck around the castle, slinking through shadows.

He and Lily had found the room on accident in their second year, and he barely remembered how they did it. After they established the room's entrance, they were able to connect it to Slughorn's closet and put a repelling charm on it. The man liked the two so much, that it was sinfully easy to exclusively make use of the room. Severus always thought they destroyed the other entrance…apparently, they had not.

He spent another hour venturing around, catching more suspicious-looking students than entrances to secret musical rooms. Needless to say, he was quite frustrated.

Severus Snape was in the middle of his evening prowl when he heard three sets of footsteps coming down the hall. He slipped into a corner, allowing the shadows to cover him sufficiently. His sensitive eyes caught the identities of the three instantaneously, and he was tempted to transform right there and catch them out after curfew. Somehow, he was able to reign in his impulsiveness and just followed them to the seventh floor.

He watched them pace and decided to transform to catch them in the act, but as soon as he changed back, they were closing the door to a room he'd never seen before. He stopped short of running into the door, and he couldn't open it. Of course, he wouldn't knock, oh no. He could wait until they left, and catching them would be sweet.

* * *

"Harry, are—are you serious?" Hermione asked, marveling at the violin.

"Completely."

Ron was too busy touching and fiddling with the knickknacks around the room to understand why Hermione was so captivated by the violin. He carefully handled a small clock with ornamentation framing the face and put it back in its place. "Harry, this stuff is amazing. It's all yours?"

"I found it here one day. Over the summer, that is."

"So this isn't your violin?" Hermione asked, picking it up tentatively by the neck. She continued to fiddle with the things inside the case while Harry tried to explain the room.

"I came here one day, and I guess I needed this. I don't know why any of this came here, because I wasn't thinking about how much I needed a room like this. That violin? It's a replica of the violin I had when I was younger. I—yeah, so this is where I've been spending all my free time."

In the time he spent telling them about the room, Hermione had the violin's shoulder rest on and the bow tightened at the right tension. He wondered at her as she put the bow to the D string and started to play around with the instrument. It was a bit scratchy, but Harry could tell that she had played a string instrument before.

"Hermione, you play the violin too?" Ron asked, marveling at the somewhat smooth tone that rung from the instrument. It sounded nothing like the scratchiness either of the boys expected from a beginner. She stopped and put the violin in its case.

"I played the viola when I was…three, but switched to piano. Not to brag, but I was quite the amazing pianist. After a while, I decided it wasn't much fun, and I stopped."

Harry didn't know what Ron was thinking, but it didn't matter to him anyway. He could only think back on what Vivaldi said about magic levels. "You must have been…really into music."

"Back then, I think I was. These days, not as much. I keep it up during the summer, but only because it's something you never want to forget. Since when did you play, Harry?"

"I—I played in primary school, but then I stopped. This is the first year I've played since…well, a long time ago."

Ron grumbled to himself. "I swear, everyone plays some kind of instrument! What is this?"

"You don't, Ron?" Harry asked. After all, Vivaldi had said that many people with wizarding ancestry took up music to raise magic…but the Weasleys were unconventional purebloods.

"No. Mum wanted us to, but none of us liked it and she backed down."

"Backed down? Mrs. Weasley?" Hermione inquired in a voice full of doubt. Harry mentally agreed with her.

"Yeah, we were shocked too," Ron started, "But I think it was because she heard Malfoy was learning and she felt guilty for apparently 'trying to make us like the other stuck-up purebloods', as Fred and George put it." Harry's mind stewed with the new information. Draco Malfoy probably had musical talent as well. Then what about Crabbe and Goyle? Did their parents make them pursue the arts too?

"Hey Harry, play something, please?" Ron asked, looking through the sheet music strewn across the stand. Harry didn't bother waiting for Ron to find something; he put the violin to his shoulder and played whatever came to mind. He started playing his mother's song, not a thought of Snape entering his mind. He didn't comprehend how easily it came to him until he realized that his fingers seemed to move of their own accord. The magical feeling seemed to swirl around him, tickling his senses and comforting him at the same time. As he improvised, randomly placing double-stops wherever he felt the need to, he heard something join him. He grinned to himself when he took a few steps back to see Hermione's graceful hands dancing on the keys. He didn't know how, but at some point, his violin and Hermione's piano worked together to create something with a more modern taste. It was strange, new, and Harry loved it.

He felt he could play forever. Food, school, Voldemort be damned. _This _was his life! He could spend eternity in the Room and want for nothing. He realized that it would have to come to an end when Hermione started slowing down. Reluctantly, he slowed down as well, drawing the last note out as long as physically possible.

"That was…brilliant!" Ron said, clapping loudly. "Merlin, I wish I had taken up those music lessons like Mum wanted. That was unbelievable!"

"Thank you, Ron," Hermione said, standing up and bowing. "Though now, I think I understand you, Harry. You can't play at the Dursleys, can you?" She bit her lip, whether in pity or apology, Harry didn't know.

Harry paused, and eventually nodded his head. Hermione wrapped an arm around his neck and looked him straight in the eye. "Harry, again, I'm sorry about my tendency to get into your business. I hope you'll accompany me again sometime."

"Most definitely. You know…if Ron learned a string instrument, we could be an amazing trio." Harry and Hermione slowly turned their eyes toward Ron, who was looking back at them with a bemused expression.

"Trust me. You don't want me on any instruments. Merlin knows I have no musical talent." Harry put his hands on Ron's shoulders and guided him to the piano. "Are you sure?"

Ron laughed. "Honestly, I've tried before! I'm hopeless." Harry glanced over at his right when he saw Hermione coming toward the piano as well. She looked at Ron with an analyzing look, the same look she had when she was looking at a book she might want to read. She stood on Ron's left and played a short scale. Then, she guided his right index finger to the first white key she played, and pressed down. The note held for a second or two, and then she let go.

"In this case, that was C, or Do." She then took his middle finger and placed it on the next white key. "This is D, or Re." Ron pressed it and looked up at Hermione, unimpressed.

She was about to take his ring finger when Ron said, "Even if I learn all the names of the notes, there is no way I'm going to be able to play like you."

"That's not what I'm aiming to do here," Hermione murmured. She had that same look again, and then put a thoughtful finger on her lip. "Hit the first key I showed you." Dutifully, Ron pressed the C. "Okay, now sing that note."

Now, both Harry and Ron gave her an unimpressed look. Harry wasn't sure, but he thought he'd heard Ron before. In the shower? Or maybe a particularly festive night after a successful quidditch game? Either way, Harry knew he had never heard Ron sing a single musical note.

"Just do it, Ronald! Do…" Hermione sang, obviously becoming more impatient with Ron, coupled with Harry's hesitation. It was shaky at first, but after Hermione hit the C key again, Ron's voice grew stronger. And both Harry and Hermione were surprised by the clarity in his voice.

"No way," Harry muttered. "Why haven't you ever sung before?"

"I've never needed to sing and I have no idea why you think that's any good," Ron shrugged.

"Well, it's not amazing…yet. I think if you work on your diaphragm, we'll get something. And you'll probably have to work on your range."

It felt like half a second passed before they found themselves doing a rendition of a song from a muggle movie. Hermione prettied up the melody and then added a right hand part for her other hand, and Harry was content to play whatever sounded good and harmonious. Ron hummed the tune, probably feeling too uncomfortable to sing along. Harry felt right about this entire scenario. This was right. This is what he should have done in the beginning.

Harry glanced at his friends, seeing them wrapped up in the beauty. Ron was smiling, even though he had no idea what he was humming, and Hermione, though stumbling over a few keys, seemed to be enjoying herself as well. Harry couldn't help but wonder: had they realized the differences in their magic? Did they notice the change, the exhilaration of magic and music intertwining, becoming one amazing force? He wasn't sure, and he wasn't going to ask them just yet.

"Merlin, Harry, look at the time!" He was interrupted from his thoughts and the song when he spied a clock on the knickknack shelf. Indeed, it was almost four in the morning, and they hadn't gotten any sleep.

"I think I can understand how you can get so caught up in this," Hermione amended. "You know I'm sorry about the whole drug thing, right?"

What was this, the fourth time she apologized tonight? "Yeah, I know. But I'm also really glad you guys don't mind my having a boyfriend."

"WHAT??!"

"Kidding, kidding. Ron, it's a joke. Don't get your knickers in a twist."

* * *

Severus lurked in the corridor in his cat form, listening intently for anything. He heard an instrument…an instrument? He perked up his ears and almost fell over when Lily's song floated from the door.

'Impossible,' he thought. Maybe someone had found the sheet music? Or maybe this room was haunted. After all, he had heard the eerie theme over the summer when there were no students. Save Potter.

'Impossible!' he thought again, this time shaking his head forcefully. The late night was getting to him; surely he did not think that _Potter_ could be the cause of this? _'But things would make sense if he were,' _a traitorous voice whispered to him.

But it wouldn't. It was Potter, and anything that included a Potter would inevitably be bad news. This, whatever it was, could only have bad consequences if Potter were involved. James Potter, damn him, was haunting him even when he was dead. And Lily, his Lily, followed him just as eagerly. What did these ghosts want of him, and why was the younger Potter bothering him so?

Another instrument? Yes, there were two. Severus pricked up his ears for anything, and after the..piano, yes, it was most definitely a piano, finished, he heard more. A voice joined, first in little notes, and then into full-blown scales. It was a magnificent voice. Untrained, but with so much potential!

He crouched in the shadows for hours, slowly losing any hope of finding the phantom musician, now turned musicians. They would never come out, he thought. Maybe these really were ghosts. There was no reason why students would sneak out in the middle of the night to make music. It was ridiculous! Especially when they could just use a silencing spell in the dorms if they needed it. So ghosts? Was he chasing mere ghosts?

_I need to leave before all of this drives me insane. I'll think better tomorrow…_

As soon as he decided to leave, the door flew open.

He could suddenly hear voices clearly. "—imey, that was amazin', Harry!" a male voice said, a very familiar male voice at that.

"Shush, Ron! Merlin, I'd think you'd never heard of Snape or Filch," a female voice berated the other.

"Now if you'd both just shut up, I think we could make it back safely," a third voice, a different voice, added.

_That_ was most definitely Potter. And the voices were fading, as if they were leaving. That meant they were employing Potter's damn invisibility cloak.

Perhaps it was the lack of proper sleep, or just the magical residue in the air…or perhaps it was because he wished to know more about this new _musical_ Golden Trio…For some reason that would haunt him for the rest of the night, and probably the rest of the week, Severus decided to let them off.

* * *

The next morning, the Gryffindor table was witness to the absence of the Golden Trio—an odd occurrence that usually signaled trouble. Of course, Professor McGonagall and the Headmaster noted this, but all they could do was: check the dorms; if failed, then hope they turn up for classes. If that failed, it was a search party and then, once that almost inevitably failed, hope they wouldn't get themselves killed.

Dumbledore sighed. Those three always made the most trouble, and normal procedures usually didn't work for them.

Severus Snape was probably the only person in the Great Hall who could guess the true reason to their absence. He was almost certain that they weren't doing any gallivanting this morning. He imagined they were doing precisely what he wanted to do at that moment: sleep.

* * *

"Harry! Ron! Do you have _any_ idea what time it is? And Dumbledore apparently had some kind of announcement to make!" Hermione shouted as she yanked blankets and vanished pillows.

Groans and mumbles answered her frantic question. "Leave us be, Hermione," Ron mumbled. He reached down to grab his stolen blanket just in time for Hermione to magic it away.

"I'm serious! Get up, get up, get up!" she said in her shrillest voice.

"Great Merlin, I'm up!" Harry said, groggily sitting up. He glanced at his wristwatch and then jumped up with all the vigor Hermione thought he should've had. He yanked the curtain closed and yanked on trousers over his pants with one hand while sticking his hand out from under the curtain to dig through his trunk for a shirt with the other, all the while trying to wake Ron up with his shouts.

"Ron, she's serious. We're already late. Either you get up now, or else we'll spell your bed wet," he said, throwing a robe on.

"Sleepy. Hermione, why didn't you wake us up sooner?" Ron grumbled, moving at a slower pace than Harry, but at a faster pace than nothing.

"I only just woke up. We'll have to schedule those night outings differently, or else it'll be like this every morning. Oh, hurry up, Ronald!"

"Hurrying, hurrying…"

Hermione whirled away with purpose.

Ron yawned and checked to see that he had his shoes on the right feet. He glanced outside and noted the sunny window. "Great Merlin, Harry, what time is it?"

"It's only five minutes after breakfast. _Come on_," Harry grabbed Ron's arm as the other boy pulled his robes on.

"We have plenty of time!" Ron said indignantly, jerking his arm away.

Harry huffed and threw his knapsack on. "Only five minutes after breakfast _finished_," he growled.

"Bloody hell, why are we so late? And how did you ever get up in time for classes if you did that every night?"

"Didn't do it _every _night. And you two woke me up every morning, remember? We need an alarm. Or to get one of the guys to wake us up," Harry and Ron shrugged sheepishly when they reached the hallway outside the Gryffindor Tower and saw a stern, foot-tapping Hermione.

"Sorry, Ron's hard to wake," Harry used as his excuse. Ron scowled and shoved Harry playfully.

"I know," Hermione said, ignoring Ron. "Let's go."

* * *

"Ten points from Gryffindor—each for missing breakfast," Severus uttered with a thin veneer of contempt. He had waited for quite a while to catch the trio trudging out from the common room. He noted their drawn faces and weary mien and concluded that they were indeed as tired as he himself felt. It was clear from their lack of fight, the cool detachment that sputtered off of them in bolts. Oh yes, they were absolutely fatigued!

"Sorry Professor," one of them said. He wasn't sure which, because the three looked to be in the same frame of mind and same attitude. He was surprised to realize it had been Potter, but by the time he worked it out, the students were on their way.

"And another ten each if you are late for classes. Be gone!" he managed to shout. And in an instant—more because of their own conviction than Severus's command—they had disappeared.

Severus decided to give his first class a free period in the potions classroom under Vivaldi merely to give himself the chance to catch the three late (and of course to see if anyone recognized the composer). It always cheered him a bit when he had the chance to take points. From Gryffindor, of course. The time he now had also had other purposes; he was going to find that stupid room and see who was really making the music. He would find the real cause of his sleepless nights and haunting. It could not be Potter. Merlin no, it had better not be Potter.

Severus knew something wasn't quite right with himself these days. He was skipping classes, something he hadn't even done as a student, and he didn't even proctor his own detentions, leaving his students under the 'watchful' eye of a portrait! But this was important, and Dumbledore could shove it if he dared say anything of his recently strange decisions. He was mostly concerned about his own sanity—if he never found the culprit, would he continue to haunt the halls of Hogwarts searching for a ghost who had died sixteen years ago?

He marched himself up to the floor where he heard the three students talking the night before. It was a wall. Where had the door gone? He figured this must have been the secret room in which the famous Dumbledore's Army trained. They must have gotten in somehow. Severus inspected the area he had stood yesterday, and then crossed to the other side to see if there was anything there. He glanced over every stone and every crevice, using a handkerchief to wipe off the years of dust. Great Merlin, how he wanted to find that damned room! He growled in exasperation and walked back down the hallway from where he had come in the first place, overlooking the entire bleak hallway. There was nothing here. He had inspected the entire hallway, and had found nothing.

"Damned Hogwarts, moving her rooms about where they're already impossible to find…" Severus decided he might as well give up. Maybe he could issue a pop quiz when he got back to his dungeons to keep them on their toes. Yes, that would brighten his spirits. He had already turned around when he realized that he had forgotten his handkerchief by the stones at the other end of the hallway. He was going quite crazy, he knew. Maybe he'd be eligible for Headmaster if his insanity grew just a bit more. He strolled down the corridor. 'I happen to like that handkerchief,' he was thinking, when a door appeared.

He almost fell on his back when the thing materialized in the wall. Curiosity got the better of him and he put his hand on the door. Slytherin caution kicked in halfway, and he shot off a few scouting spells and detector charms to make sure there was nothing treacherous. He slid in and saw that the entire room was filled with handkerchiefs.

"Handkerchiefs. Curse Merlin to the deepest depths of Hell, I wanted to find that damned room!"

And in a split second, in a microsecond, the room shifted and he found himself in an oddly familiar room. But it was not his room; the music stand had sheet music gracing itself, and there were no celli. However, there was a violin. Oh, it must be Lily's violin! Severus respectfully opened the case, working each protection, the zippers, the Velcro, the lock, as carefully as a mother with a babe. But what greeted him was not the fiery red varnish that resembled Lily's lusciously auburn locks—no, it was a ratty old thing! A ratty old piece of driftwood! He almost dropped the thing, except that he knew it was still an instrument, still a means of making music. Despite his better judgment, he plucked the A string with one finger…and a single resounding note filled the air. It mesmerized him. The strings were apparently new, and he could tell, after getting his bearings, that the violin wasn't in such bad shape. In fact, it looked old, possibly older than Lily's had been.

What was his room doing here? Oh, he had heard of the infamous D.A., and he never believed in a room that appeared upon willpower. He should have known better—it was Hogwarts. So that narrowed the list of Vivaldi's possible students to those in the D.A. and those who knew of its location. He could easily garner a list of those involved, and he could prove to himself that the student could be someone else. It didn't have to be Potter. Perhaps Potter had stumbled into the room, and that's how Severus had seen it in the boy's mind.

He set off to put together a working list of D.A. members. Nodding to himself, he internalized the picture of this room that was both his and not his.

In a few minutes, he had arrived in Dumbledore's office to innocently inquire about last year's D.A. members, but the Headmaster was nowhere to be found. He searched the entire school before sweeping into Flitwick's room. "Filius, Dumbledore has apparently gone missing, and we—"

"Fret not, Severus, I'm here," an aged voice tinkled. Severus boiled. "What the hell, Headmaster? I was searching for you all over the school."

"I had some business to attend to. If you would like, I could explain my new idea to you!"

Severus had no idea why Dumbledore suddenly wanted to actively do something for school unity. Perhaps it was because of the Dark Lord's nonappearance. The absence of dreams in the Boy-Who-Lived seemed to unsettle the man since they both knew that the brat had never mastered Occlumency, and the Dark Lord was only silent when he was planning something nefarious.

He had heard of the Headmaster's idea and could only be happy that his class time had not been chosen to give the students an arts and crafts project. Really, Flitwick was probably the only teacher aside from Hagrid who would let the Headmaster take their classes to do something utterly muggle. He supposed it did teach the students harmless cutting charms and sticking charms, but half of them chose to use scissors and glue sticks. Where they came from, only the Headmaster knew.

In the Great Hall, Albus sat beside him without a word. Severus, without making eye contact, sneered, "What inane idea have you come up with now, Headmaster?"

The man laughed heartily. "Severus, this is a good chance for students to understand each other. We need unity right now, and not the unity of one house against another's. Hogwarts needs to stand strong, and she can only do so when her inhabitants stand together," he said with a wise air about him.

"And what will an arts and crafts project do to unite the school?" Severus asked, tired of the man's meandering words.

To this, the Headmaster sobered. "Do you not know what it is they will be writing on the parchments?" After Severus shook his head, Albus smiled. "I have asked them to write their secrets. Or perhaps anything that they feel can only be shared anonymously. That is all."

Severus scoffed. "As if students would ever confess their secrets to pieces of parchment! And pray tell what you will do when they have written their insincere avowals?" Honestly, what a waste of parchment and time!

"Why Severus, I will post them up. For those who do not want their secrets posted, they may keep or dispose of them. I believe it will be a good way to express themselves anonymously without hurting anyone."

Severus didn't answer. He didn't need to. If Albus thought such a ridiculous idea could work, there was no way he could convince the Headmaster otherwise. He imagined knocking some sense into the old man, but he knew people had been trying and failing to do that very thing for decades. So instead, he scoffed, "Whatever you believe is best."

* * *

Harry wondered what his friends would write. He played with his piece of parchment, a rectangular piece whose size resembled a muggle note card, just like everyone else's. It was rough to the touch and so very thin, yet he found problems determining exactly what he would write. He didn't know any secrets they would put up. Hermione? Maybe she would write something about her intelligence. Or something about her aspirations. They had never really talked about those kinds of things anyway. Ron would probably find the humor in all of this and write something about food or Quidditch. Harry already knew what he wanted to say. "I'm not as amazing as others imagine me," popped into his mind fairly quickly. It was true; it had been true since he took his first step into the Wizarding world.

But as Harry's quill hit the parchment, he hesitated. This was the one time he could bear his soul with impunity. He could rail against all the injustices in the world, he could finally confess to the depths of the emotional damage caused by the Dursleys, he could…he could write about his father—his biological father or his father in all but blood, or even his insecurities. Ha! The Boy-Who-Lived with insecurities, how ever will he defeat Voldemort? Harry was then certain of what he wanted. He picked up the magazines and dumped them by the other sixths years. This would not need pictures.

* * *

Severus Snape was already seated at the Head Table for supper when Professor Flitwick scurried in with boxes full of small bits of parchment. The man started charming the little index card-sized pieces to the walls. There were so many, more than the amount of students attending the school. Some of the students had most likely written twice or God forbid, thrice! He scoffed at the sheer amount of verbal vomit students could imagine to fill up so many pieces. What could they possibly say in all of those little cards that would not be repeated? It was a complete waste. So he let the teachers and students mill around the cards without showing a faint sign that he was intrigued. He did, however, observe them. One seventh year girl started sobbing and had to have her friends assist her out. What could possibly be so horrible? Even Minerva, the ever reliable, stony Minerva, seemed shaken as she ushered a few younger years out of the Great Hall to their dorms. He left as well, glancing at the multi-colored 'secrets.'

Severus, though he would never admit it, was eager to see what secrets his students would post, and why they would elicit such reactions from his students and colleagues. He imagined there would be quite a few entertaining ones, because honestly, the entire exercise was a complete waste of time and resources, and he could not see any student taking it seriously. He had to wonder though, what would cause enough sorrow to make even Minerva falter? Only once curfew was well underway and the Great Hall was empty did he venture back to the Great Hall. Standing before a wall, he inspected the cards. For some reason, it was assuring to note that they were nothing more than bits of spare parchment. Just parchment. Surely, they could not be that bad.

However, he was floored when he walked into the Great Hall. And he glanced at the nearest card. It was a monochromatic picture of a man and a young girl, obviously from one of those muggle magazines. He had to walk closer to read the script: "My relationship with my dad isn't what it used to be." Severus frowned. That was certainly sad, but such a simple confession would not bring a school together, not the kind of unity Dumbledore would be satisfied with.

His curiosity however grabbed a hold of him and pushed him to others. There was a bright one with random, colorful clippings charmed onto it. Messily scrawled onto the center was "I'm often bored." Severus snorted. Yeah, these will definitely draw the school together.

…But he was addicted, and he could not leave the secrets alone without reading a bit more. He continued reading: "I'll never forgive myself for letting him take my innocence." What the hell? He ripped his eyes away from that and onto another, which read, "I wish I was someone people could love." Apart from the hideous grammar, the implied message itself was appalling.

"Are these supposed to be so…so depressing?" he asked himself.

"Initially, no."

Severus jumped and glared at the offending voice. Of course, it was Dumbledore. "What do you mean, Headmaster? What good could come of this? Of these—confessions?"

"A few students showed a post secret to me once, decades upon decades ago, it might have actually been while I myself was still in school. But they were light-hearted confessions, little things, like taking cookies from the cookie jar or drawing on school property. Never did I think my students harbored such pain," the Headmaster mourned. Severus could see how the secrets weighed upon him. He wondered at them too. They weren't secrets so much as they were little bursts of emotion for which the students never had outlets.

His eyes raked over more, and landed on a sad one with a silhouetted picture of two people kissing with the label, "I wish my parents still loved each other," written neatly at the bottom. He wondered at the handwriting, finding it quite familiar. Right beside it was another piece of parchment with the same handwriting but having a very different message: "I wish I were confident in myself. I wish I didn't need others to make me feel worth something."

Below that was another secret by a different student, "I want more from life than a birth and a death." It did not have the same depressing tone that others had, but it wasn't quite as chipper as the one a meter away reading, "I love unicorns!" Severus had to wonder, if the person who wrote about unicorns had to say something serious, would it be as pained as these others?

Severus walked around, noting that Albus was still there, rereading the parchment with a haunted look on his face. Severus tried ignoring him, looking at other ones.

There was one that was merely script without pictures. "When I was little, my dad told me to always be his baby girl. But when he left our family, he told me to grow up. I will never forgive him." And more. Severus learned more about the lives of his students than if he had been locked in a room with them for years. For the first time in a long time, he felt overwhelmed by the emotion locked into the little pieces of parchment. He learned of their insecurities, their debaucheries, their sorrows. But he was Severus Snape! He did not crumble at the sight of teenage melodrama! But the words, the confessions, "I used to drink for fun, but now I drink to forget," or "Even when I'm surrounded by 'friends,' I still feel so alone."

So many dreadful things that the students, mere children, had to suffer through alone. How Hogwarts displayed her children's sorrows on her walls, calling out for redemption and understanding!

Sure, there were a few light secrets, "I can't stand chocolate," and "I am unnerved by clowns," but the overwhelming majority were painful secrets. Didn't the students talk to each other? He knew the female population did; what other emotional injuries did they carry that they did not share in their little slumber parties?

"Albus, what good could possibly come from this?" Severus asked again, a little despair hanging in his voice.

"Oh Severus," he cried softly, "I had hoped to bring the school together in laughter and openness. However unfortunate it seems, sorrow will bring us together as well. I thought that at the end of this, some students would want to speak about their opinion of this activity, but it seems to be negative for all involved. But this is not a complete disaster, is it? Tell me, what do you think?"

Severus paused uncertainly. This was not the time for sarcasm or petty insults. As much as he did not want to act the sensitive colleague, Albus needed him. "Headmaster, I believe that—" and here he paused. He thought long and hard, yet time only processed a mere second. "—that each student seems to have needed a way to express himself, a cri de cœur. Even if they are not writing to someone particular, it is obvious that the students were holding themselves back from letting out their emotions, and however much I do not want to promote wearing one's heart on one's sleeve, holding them in is detrimental to the self."

The Headmaster seemed to take it all in, absorbing each word and understanding the significance in the man's surprisingly heartfelt answer. He nodded solemnly and with a lighter voice, said, "I thank you, Severus, for helping an old man feel just a little less burdened. But we must do something. Perhaps a dance is in order. Yes, thank you again, Severus. Have a good night." And with that, Dumbledore was gone.

"He certainly did a 180 there. As if the little cretins need any more distractions," Severus muttered. He continued looking around, gradually getting closer to the exit. He felt he might have been going crazy—he kept hearing things. Little things, like a cloak…but he ignored them and continued winding his way around, looking at random cards. Finally, he couldn't take it. He needed to go.

When he was about to leave the Great Hall, a small bit of parchment jumped out at him. Well, not quite a small bit, but more many small bits. Exactly four small bits, quite obviously torn from one larger piece that would have been the same size as the others. Each word, each letter was carefully scribed onto the parchment in such a way that it would be impossible to match it to any handwriting. It was as if the letters were typed with a muggle typewriter. The author obviously went to great lengths to remain anonymous.

"I wish people liked me for who I am."

"I'm not as confident as people would think."

"I wish my father knew who I am."

"I wish everything would hurry up and end."

Severus paused. He bent closer to the parchment and, yes, there were faint fingerprints on it. But he felt he didn't need to scan them. Just the smell of the ink was enough to give away the author, as did the particularly proper handwriting. Severus could have guessed all of that, but never did he think this student would have the confidence to show everyone, even it if the cards were anonymous. He hunched his shoulders and walked toward the doors, intending to drink a nice mug of tea, if only to relieve the sorrow he felt.

"Draco, Draco," he mournfully whispered to himself. He stopped talking when he thought he heard something. He spun around suspiciously and then let out a small breath, barely a sigh. A student, really? Well, he couldn't just let students get away.

* * *

Ron urged Harry back to the Great Hall after curfew. They were both hiding under the cloak, having left Hermione in the dorm to study. She had told them to go without her, claiming she could read them whenever she went for breakfast tomorrow and scolding all the while about breaking curfew for no good reason. "Harry, which one's yours?" Ron asked, looking around the Great Hall. Harry looked at him skeptically.

"You know these are secrets, right Ron?" he asked, feeling just a tad nervous. He didn't want anyone to know his secret. No one would believe it was his anyway.

"Yeah, but c'mon. You probably did something funny too, right? I saw you ripping your piece in two."

Harry shook his head. "Sorry, Ron, but it is kind of personal. I'd rather not say." He glanced at Ron and wondered what reaction he would get. After all, it seemed all he was doing lately was keeping secrets.

"No, I understand. Here, I'll show you mine." Ron quickly dragged him to the other side of the hallway, a little away from the doors. He led Harry to a strangely put together card. It was a hodgepodge of bizarre pictures all somehow charmed onto one piece of parchment. In the center, in bright purple ink, read, "I'm often bored." Harry stifled a laugh, just as Ron pinched him.

"What was that for?" Harry whispered. Ron did not say a word. He grabbed the sides of Harry's head and turned it toward…"Snape?"

"What is he doing here?" he asked much quietly. Ron shrugged and gestured toward the doors. Yes, leaving now would be a good idea. They were on their way out when they heard Snape talking to Dumbledore.

"—what do you think?"

The world's greasiest potions teacher paused, and Harry could only wonder why. "Headmaster, I believe that—" and here the man paused. Snape seemed to be taking this conversation seriously. "—that each student seems to have needed a way to express himself, a cri de cœur." A what? "Even if they are not writing to someone particular, it is obvious that the students were holding themselves back from letting out their emotions, and however much I do not want to promote wearing one's heart on one's sleeve, holding them in is detrimental to the self."

They watched the Headmaster as he nodded. With a considerably less troubled mien, he said, "I thank you, Severus, for helping an old man feel just a little less burdened. But we must do something. Perhaps a dance is in order. Yes, thank you again, Severus. Have a good night." Harry could swear the Headmaster winked at them before leaving. The man's robes twirled around the door before disappearing entirely.

"He certainly did a 180 there," Harry almost jumped, forgetting that Snape was even there. "As if the little cretins need any more distractions," he muttered. They looked at each other and agreed that they needed to leave quickly. However, Snape seemed to block them at every step. The man was stepping in weird ways, looking at the cards randomly in no particular order. It seemed they couldn't leave until he did, they way everything was going. Finally, the man looked like he was ready to leave.

'Finally,' Ron mouthed and giggled. Harry laughed silently. The stress of getting out safe probably made him temporarily insane. They almost ran into Snape when the man suddenly stopped. The two boys looked over at whatever made the man stop. Harry laughed again when he saw it. It sounded exactly what he would say! He laughed to himself as Ron looked at both Snape and Harry closely. He read it as well and looked to Harry confusedly. 'What's it mean?' he mouthed. Harry shrugged. "Draco, Draco."

Ron jumped at the sudden sound. Abruptly, Snape turned around. It seemed the man was looking straight at them, straight through the cloak. Although they both knew it was impossible, both boys found it hard to stay calm.

"Well, well, someone out past curfew. I wonder, who could it be…" and he yanked off the cloak.

"Potter? Again? Really. And Weasley. Because I am tired, I think I'll just give you both detentions and save the jokes about your idiocy for class. Potter, detention with me tomorrow, and Weasley, detention with Filch. Good night." And with that, the man was gone.

"Don't you already have detentions with him for the next two weeks?" Ron asked. Harry shrugged and decided to leave as quickly as possible. Snape could have done a lot worse, Harry thought. It was strange to see the man so…held back. He shivered to himself and accompanied Ron to the common room before they could be caught by Filch.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Sorry for the long wait. The only excuse I could possibly use is my temporary falling out with music. But then I stumbled upon my story while browsing through a C2…and I ended up rereading some reviews…and I realized that I didn't want to abandon this story. I'm having trouble figuring out where I'm going, so suggestions would be mightily appreciated. Oh, and I wrote this kind of flowery description toward the end, so you may either ignore it or enjoy it.

Disclaimer: This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Musical Magic**

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

_"Potter? Again? Really. And Weasley. Because I am tired, I think I'll just give you both detentions and save the jokes about your idiocy for class. Potter, detention with me tomorrow, and Weasley, detention with Filch. Good night." And with that, the man was gone._

"How many detentions is that?" Ron asked as they snuck back into the Gryffindor common room.

Harry visibly slumped. "Oh, at the least fifteen. You know, I'm trying for maybe a full hundred this year, but only if I'm lucky and Snape's in a good mood." He flopped into an armchair and shared a bittersweet smile with Ron. "And you know what's funny?" he laughed just so that the two could hear.

"What, mate?" Ron answered dutifully whilst directing his eyes on the ceiling.

"Snape was actually lenient tonight. I think those secrets kind of scared him," Harry speculated. He snorted to himself and added, "Or made himself a little more aware of teenage angst."

Ron nodded in full agreement. "Definitely. Even I was shocked at all that stuff…it's strange to think that our own classmates have that many insecurities, you know? It's weird, like Neville, he could be any one of those, and we wouldn't know it. Almost none of them were happy or fun, so I'd bet our own dorm mates posted something more on the dark side."

Harry didn't respond, mostly because he was thinking the same thing. Ron didn't seem to see the full picture, though. Harry could tell that everyone had insecurities and self-incriminations. He was more worried about the people who displayed nothing wrong in everyday communication. They were the ones who kept their worries hidden deep where they themselves would not be able to access. They held happy facades, and nobody noticed. When was the last time he heard of someone's parents divorcing, or someone drinking to lose himself, or someone cutting? There were so many displayed upon the walls that Harry had to wonder which were posted by the seventh years and which by the first years. He had to wonder about the circumstances of the secrets. It killed him to think that even the youngest, the most innocent of the Hogwarts population could be suffering so. They were only eleven! What horrors could they possibly experience?

He was able to vocalize his thoughts and answer after thinking a bit more. "I think I'm more worried that someone close to us could be suffering, and we'd never know it."

Ron looked at Harry with troubled eyes. He stood from his chair and stretched, loosening his muscles from the emotional strain laid upon them. "Harry, let's sleep on it, yeah? This—it's too much right now." And Harry could hear the imperceptible hitch in his friend's voice. So he nodded and joined Ron for the long trek up to the boy's dormitories.

"Harry, you never told me what you wrote," Ron said with a hint, a subtle hint, of desperation in his voice. He could tell Ron was worried about what he wrote. Harry had to confess, if only to himself, that knowing Ron's 'secret' was not one of the more worrisome ones—being bored was usually not something to be upset about—relieved Harry to a certain degree. Of course, Ron could be fibbing, but Harry really wanted to believe that Ron kept no painful secrets to himself. He always seemed the most verbose of the three. So shouldn't he try to offer Ron the same consolation?

"I wrote about the music," among other things,' Harry said aloud and thought silently. He felt relieved as soon as Ron's face brightened. "That's a relief. Let me tell you, Harry, I'm awfully scared of what Hermione's put."

Harry had to be concerned now. "Why are you worried about Hermione's?" he wondered.

Ron leant back, as if to get a better view of Harry. An incredulous motion. "Haven't you noticed? Her emotions have been all over the place, and she's just kind of different. She only really looked comfortable when we were in the Room of Requirement." Harry felt guilt plunge into the center of his stomach. Had he really been ignorant of such a change in one of his best friends?

"She stopped biting her pencils incessantly, and she hasn't been wearing her charm bracelet," Ron let the door creak open and checked to see if anyone was still awake.

"Charm bracelet?" Harry didn't remember anything about that at all. He looked around too, but they were all snoring away.

"Her mum sent it for her birthday, and she hasn't been wearing it. Usually when she gets that kind of jewelry, you know, bracelets and necklaces, she wears them for a little while, but she didn't wear this one, and it looked nice," Ron quickly changed into his night clothes and sat on the edge of his bed facing Harry.

To Harry, Ron seemed really enamoured with Hermione. "How do you notice that?" Harry asked, trying not to overtly insinuate that Ron was completely in love with Hermione, though that was what he was thinking.

"I, well, you know, we all spend so much time together, you pick up those sort of things," Ron said defensively. So he could read Harry's thoughts. They climbed into their respective beds and lied down on the covers.

Harry pulled the covers over his head and muttered, "Not if it's platonic…"

* * *

"Draco," Severus started, seeing the boy's hands shake nervously beneath the tabletop. He hadn't seen him this nervous in class, so he supposed Draco's uncharacteristic anxiety was due to Severus's decision to confront him. It was much easier to confront a young man about his troubles than to confront any form of his past.

"Yes, Severus?" he responded, pure stoicism despite his clammy-looking hands.

Severus was tempted to sigh, but doing so in front of a student would be against his fierce stoic image. But he wondered, did he really need that fierce image at this moment? Didn't he need a more, dare he think it, _caring_ façade? "Are you faltering?" he asked neutrally.

The young Malfoy's gray eyes widened in fear, but only for a split second. "I…Severus, you know I love my mother," he said, stiffly.

"That is beside the point, Draco," Severus said calmly in his soothing baritone. He took a seat in a student desk, making himself level with Draco.

"How could you tell?" Draco changed the topic, "You recognized my handwriting? My parchment, my fingerprints, my—"

"Ink," Severus interrupted Draco's nervous babbling. "You ought to refrain from using such high grade ink for such an exercise. And, this nose of mine is not just for decoration," he joked lightly, hoping to keep Draco's anxiety at bay. The boy could be so restless and panicky sometimes despite his usual apparent demeanor.

"My things must always be of the highest quality. But I should have known you'd sniff it out," he laughed. "Since you're a Potions master and all," a calmer Draco responded somewhat comfortably.

Severus nodded. There was only silence pervading the room, and contrary to the usual principle of awkward silence, it seemed Draco was only relaxing more. Severus relaxed in his own chair, allowing Draco to feel comfortable in the classroom.

"Is it safe having a portrait in here?" Draco asked, finding another topic to avoid the problem at hand.

"It is perfectly safe. In fact…" Severus smoothly rose and made his way toward Vivaldi. "Antonio. I have someone you must meet."

The man with the white wig opened one eye and smiled sheepishly. "I didn't want to admit I was eavesdropping," he confessed without prompting. Then, analyzing Draco's appearance, said without thinking, "He distinctly reminds me of _il furetto_."

Severus frowned at his old friend. Of course, Vivaldi had no idea the history behind Draco and the word 'ferret.'

"Sir?" Draco asked tightly, with his anger bubbling, "Did he just call me a ferret?" Severus could almost hear the young man's teeth grinding together. After all, Draco was well versed in several foreign languages. Was it so surprising that he understood Vivaldi and took offense to the seemingly innocuous word?

"Oh, but you are not the same," Vivaldi decided aloud. He smiled amiably. "You are…like a ferret, but you are different," he said vaguely. Even Severus had no clue what he meant.

Draco looked at him, not quite in forgiveness, but no longer in animosity.

"Draco, I would like you to receive some instruction from Antonio here. He is, if you remember from your studies, a priest who composed and played the violin."

The boy looked wary, and glanced from the portrait to Severus several times. "You mean a muggle. He was _so _muggle that not even his music, lauded for centuries, could give him magic," he said dispassionately. His voice didn't hold the sneer that he had cultivated as a Malfoy, and Severus had to at least recognize it for the little advancement it was.

"Yes, Draco, a muggle. A brilliant muggle, actually," Severus said fondly. Draco looked up at him with a bemused expression on his face. It seemed that the boy just couldn't understand how a cutthroat Death Eater could appreciate a man like Vivaldi, even if they were both talented musicians.

"I'm not a instrumentalist like you, Severus. I thought you dragged me here to _talk_ about something important. And what could he possibly teach me?" Draco growled. For once, Draco was open to talking about the boy's mission.

Severus had to question his own resolve for a moment. But seeing Draco's reaction to Antonio, and seeing that Draco knew the affect of art on magic levels but still believed muggles were naturally worse than wizards, the boy needed a dose of reality. "Draco, he can teach you what you want and what you need. You must trust me. But on a different topic," here, Severus turned to Antonio. "Could you leave us for a moment? I will see you in the room later." Vivaldi nodded and easily walked from his portrait, presumably to another one.

He sat down, but this time at the teacher's desk. He turned to Draco's scowling. "Relax your face, or it'll stay that way," he chided. Reprimanded like a child, Draco instead crossed his arms and adopted his usual haughty appearance.

"At first, I was sure you wanted to discuss that inane exercise the old coot made us do and my response to it," he grumbled smoothly. How he was able to sound so petulant using such refined phraseology was beyond Severus.

He shook his head to rid himself of the distracting thoughts. "If it was indeed so _inane_, I wonder why you _responded_ so strongly. It seemed as if you needed such an outlet." Draco huffed, but Severus continued, "Your resentment toward Lucius is understandable. After, his failure did put you in this position. But the cause of this is not solely Lucius's fault. You seem to have forgotten that the Dark Lord has a hand in this, as does your mother. She chose her side. And you must choose your side. I am…most uncomfortable saying this, but it does need to be said."

He lifted his eyes to Draco's eyes. Without even using Legilimency, he could tell that Draco was scared, uncomfortable, nervous.

"Although I carry the Dark Lord's mark," he paused and saw that Draco glanced at Severus's own arm with a look of queasiness. "Although I am one of his men, I am still your godfather. I would still do anything to protect you, and forever, my foremost priority is _you _over the Dark Lord. If ever there is something that should make me choose between serving that master or protecting you, I will always choose you."

By now, Draco was fidgeting in his seat and averting his eyes. No doubt, the boy was wary of mind magic. After all, Severus had just dropped a strange confession onto him, and if he could, Severus would have been gauging his reaction using Legilimency. "Why—why does any of that matter, Uncle Severus?"

Severus had to word this correctly, because although he loved Draco, he didn't know the boy's true allegiances. Even his admission just now could have put him in serious jeopardy. "I ask you to do the same."

"Sir?" Draco inquired, looking up for once.

"If ever you come to a decision between your safety and serving the Dark Lord, I implore you to save yourself. Be it your physical self, mental, spiritual, anything. I assure you that if you ever have to make that decision, I will protect you and your mother, and your father from the Dark Lord." Even if Lucius was a lying, cheating, loyal Death Eater. Severus never said he would protect the old snake from the Order of the Phoenix or the ministry, though.

Draco, who had started to grow thinner over the year and more ragged, seemed to have a bright light in his gray eyes. "At least I can count someone as a true friend. You know…I'm a liability now. You've expressed loyalty to someone else over _him_, and if anything happens to me and I'm forced to confess—"

"That will not happen. But if, somehow, some way, in some alternate dimension, you are taken hostage and force-fed Veritaserum, you will not be able to speak of this. I will be our secret keeper. And I _will _protect you."

Draco smiled a little, a small uncertain smile. He had hope in his eyes, even buried underneath all of his misery and insecurities. He could overcome anything with Severus's help. But there was one last question, one last doubt that Draco needed Severus to answer. "Why?"

And here was the crucial moment. Severus could tell. He could give a convincingly logical answer or even ignore the question entirely to protect his heart. Or he could wear his heart on his sleeve and tell Draco a truth that Draco had probably never heard. He could bear the awkwardness, step completely out of his comfort zone, if it gave Draco security. And Draco needed that security. With his own miniscule smile gracing his face, Severus told him quite decisively, "I love you. You're are the son I never had."

* * *

Harry was morbidly browsing the secrets, his mind tumultuous. His thoughts flew away as soon as he found Hermione in the Great Hall. She was staring at a few of the secrets, and Harry sidled up to her, looking for whatever Hermione was reading.

"Hermione—" Her eyes were brimming with tears that refused to give in to gravity. She wiped her eyes quickly and gulped. "Harry, I—I never thought anyone else would have so much to say."

'Anyone else'? At the moment, he didn't think he cared about what anyone else had to say. He was more concerned with the 'so much' Hermione felt she'd had to say. "Hermione—you know, if there's anything, you can talk to me. Or Ron. If anything's bothering you, you can talk to us. If—"

Hermione grabbed his hand and pulled him to a section he had already seen. "That one's mine," she said sadly. She was pointing up to two pieces with clear handwriting printed upon it.

There was a monochromatic picture of a couple kissing, and another piece of parchment with familiar handwriting.

"Hermione…" without a thought, Harry reached for his friend and gave her a tight hug. It was awkward, it was strange, but it was right. "Hermione, we're here for you." Harry wasn't quite sure what to say or do. Hermione was his first friend to have those kinds of problems. The Weasley parents were always so close, so perfect, and Harry's parents hadn't lived long enough to encounter such problems. He was out of his depth. And the second secret—he had never considered that Hermione could be bothered about such a thing. He'd always seen her as a strong, independent woman who didn't care a thing about others' opinions. Sure, she always tried harder and sought her teachers' approval…but that…Harry wasn't sure what to think.

Hermione pulled away and giggled. Harry scowled. What was she laughing about? "Aw, the big man's crying," she said, wiping away her own tears, both of happiness and sorrow.

Surely enough, moisture lingered in his eyes, but Harry was able to blink it away quickly enough to maintain his 'manly appearance'. "Who's crying?" he asked and smiled.

"No one, no one at all. So, which is Ron's?" she asked with a sniffle.

Harry grinned. "You see that seizure-inducing one over there? That's his." It wasn't too far away, and it made Hermione smile. "Sounds like him. What about you?" she asked.

"I-I haven't seen it. It was really personal, so I've been avoiding it," he said cautiously. He hoped Hermione got the hint—he didn't want her looking for it. Harry himself hadn't even been looking for it. If Hermione stumbled across his contribution to the secrets, she would recognize one of the pieces as his. If she recognized the other, well, Harry ensured no one would recognize the other. Except for maybe himself.

A week later, Harry somehow got Ron and Hermione to spend their free time with each other, giving him liberty to go see Antonio by himself. He had been neglecting the man as of late, but Harry couldn't help but still feel a slight grudge against him. So many detentions…urgh.

"Hullo, Antonio," Harry sighed. He carefully moved the violin case; he didn't feel like practicing.

"Ciao, Harry!" the man answered nervously. Obviously, he was wary of Harry's temperament.

"Haven't seen you lately," Harry half-accused. He knew part of that was his own fault, but he had tried to visit the composer earlier; it seemed he had still been with Snape. And anyway, Harry could not let Vivaldi completely off the hook yet.

The composer pouted and looked at him under half-lidded eyes. "Si, that seems to be the case…how are you?" he asked awkwardly.

Harry almost sighed. It was just like their first conversation, wary and stilted—but even more so, if Harry were honest. There was no innocent happiness in the composer's appearance, and never did Harry's eyes meet his. "I'm fine, I guess," he said apathetically. He really did not know what to say, but decided to keep talking anyway. "Well, we had this post secret thing yesterday. It was really random—"

"Aha! I knew Albus read that book!" Vivaldi exclaimed, losing most of his wariness. His smile still looked nervous.

"Book?" Harry wondered what it had to do with the post secrets.

"Douglas Heubler," Vivaldi said fondly, "in his book Variable Piece 4: Secrets written around the seventies, I believe. He had _centinaia di_, no, _migliaia di sigreti_ recorded from random people. I never read it myself, only heard it from Severus once, and then I told Albus, and then he told me that it gave him an idea. Oh, so how funny were they?"

"Not hundreds, but thousands of secrets…" Harry muttered to himself, trying to remember all the Italian he had once known.

"_Si, si!_" Vivaldi said with growing enthusiasm. "Oh, they must have been funny, since you've decided to come back to talk to me!"

Harry shook his head. Funny? Maybe one or two secrets had been entertaining, like Ron's. Dumbledore and Vivaldi probably had not guessed how screwed up teenagers were these days. "Not at all, Antonio," Harry sighed. "They were actually rather painful."

Vivaldi stared at him with incomprehension brimming in his eyes and cocked his head to the side. "Whatever do you mean?"

He sank deeper into the chair and looked away from Vivaldi. "Have you never really looked at a teenager? It's ridiculous. I don't know what it is, whether it's hormones or society, or _both_, but for some reason, it's like as soon as we pass the ten, eleven, twelve year mark, we're hopeless!"

"What on earth are you saying?"

"Did you even read one, Antonio?" he asked wearily.

Reluctantly, he shook his head negatively. "None from Hogwarts, but I did see others, from the book, and there were plenty of funny and happy ones. Of course there were some more serious ones…but those were from adults. I should think that children ought to have funnier and happier thoughts. After all, they haven't had the experience that adults have had."

Harry laughed bitterly and looked at the composer strangely. "Are you serious? We are not mere children. We are in the middle of a war, Antonio. People have died, and that's just from my group of friends."

"I've heard your experiences are usually darker, more extreme, than the average teenager's," Antonio said meekly, not wanted to rile up the boy.

"In a way, I haven't experienced the worst," Harry answered cryptically. "I should be thankful, really. I mean, I'm comfortable with myself, I have a great group of friends, and I can definitely say that I-I don't regret too much." An unbidden image of Sirius floated to the forefront of his mind and Harry tried valiantly to bat it away. He continued anyway, Sirius's face hovering at the edges of his mind. "I know the Dursleys hate me and that the war might depend on me, but I know my parents loved me, and as for the war, well, I don't know, I guess things could be worse. And…I do have music."

Vivaldi held a sad smile on his somnolent visage and quelled his urge to sniffle at the sad impromptu speech that Harry had freely given. "Harry, little Harry," Vivaldi started, "You deserve so much. Yet it seems that Fate is reluctant to give you any of it."

Harry snapped out of his gloomy mood and turned to Antonio. "Like I said though, some people have it harder. Some of the secrets were disturbing. And it scares me that…well, you know, right?"

The man, who seemed to age a few centuries in the few moments that Harry had been talking to him, nodded morosely. "That a close friend of yours could be suffering immensely and you would never know it."

Harry's tired hazy green eyes locked with the composer, as he gave the man a look of exhausted relief. He hadn't been sure how to accurately and concisely describe the worries plaguing him, but it seemed Vivaldi got it in one. "Yeah…how'd you know?"

Vivaldi folded his hands and made sure he had Harry's full attention. "Oh, _poverino mio_, you are such an empathetic child. My poor child…you take others' pain upon yourself, leaving less room for your own grief. Having you been muting your emotions, little one?"

Harry wondered when he suddenly became Vivaldi's child. "Wha—?"

"_Capisco, capisco._" 'I see, I see'? What did he see? What did Vivaldi suddenly understand? "_Poverino mio, capisco la tua sufferenza._"

Harry's Italian was not that advanced, but it seemed like Antonio was telling him that he 'understood his pain'. "Antonio, _tua sufferenza_?"

"Your suffering! You need to grieve, Harry."

It was such an unexpected response that Harry almost fell from his seat, even though he thought he had had been firmly planted against the back of it. With a hard voice, like words carved into stone, he said, "There is nothing to grieve for."

"There is nothing for which to grieve," Vivaldi corrected absentmindedly.

Instead of becoming annoyed, Harry relaxed slightly. "This isn't an English composition class, Antonio. Prepositions at the ends of sentences and phrases are fine. And like I said, I'm done thinking about the past. Sirius is—still here, still around—but I can't just dwell on his memory."

"I suppose. But _poverino mio_, you are carrying such heavy burdens. When was the last time you played alone, by yourself, just for the sake of sound?"

Really, when had he played only for himself? Was it so horrible to be a bit selfish? Harry shook the idea away. "Music is meant to be shared, right? So I shouldn't be selfish."

Vivaldi frowned. "Harry, you do not understand. The music is first and foremost for its creator. Then you share it with others, and then you all become one. Music is unitive."

Harry laughed and imagined music 'unifying' people. "Antonio, you make it sound like marriage!"

"It is as serious as marriage, though. As a former priest, I know the sanctity of marriage," he started with the tone of someone who thought he knew everything on a given subject. Vivaldi really had no right to speak on marriage, considering he absconded from his pastoral duties. Nevertheless, he continued, "and just as marriage is unitive, art is unitive. It is what separates humans from animals."

"You're going a bit far, don't you think? Separates humans from animals? I thought you Catholics thought it was the soul. Ha! People these days say that we're all animals, just smarter than the rest."

Vivaldi held a look of frustration and pulled his powdered white wig off. "Listen, Harry. Did you never wonder why wizards think themselves better than muggles? Why they think they are no better than animals? It is because of art."

Laughing felt disrespectful in light of Vivaldi's apparently serious conjectures. Surely they were merely conjectures, right?

The man kept talking anyway, only ever pausing to make sure he had the boy's attention. "I have told you that music raises magic, yes? Centuries ago, wizards realized the connection and decided that therefore they were better than the muggles."

"Just because they think they're more artistic? Vivaldi, that's ridiculous!" Harry let out a nervous laugh. He had the feeling that this ridiculousness was not as ridiculous as it seemed.

"All humans understand and appreciate music," Antonio whispered meaningfully. "Let us discuss this one aspect of art: music. Music affects the brain physically. Although I have never done extensive research, I have had ample time to learn from books and from Focosina and Gatto when they used to visit me. Animals may produce music; you can discover so quite easily by going outside and listening to a bird chirp. What sets the animal apart from the human is perception of music. The bird does not perceive that it is making music. It perceives that it is communicating or calling for mating, but it does not appreciate music for music. It can be likened to ancient humans drawing cave paintings not for the sake of art, but for religious purposes, to aid in the hunting of animals. According to humans, wizards and muggles alike, someone is only creating music if the creator perceives it to be music. Humans appreciate art for the sake of art. It evokes emotion and triggers memories. _Ars gratia artis_, Harry. Music is special to the human."

Harry thought he understood. It was a terrifying understanding. "That's why wizards thought they were better—because to them, and to muggles, a lack of art is primitive, animalistic." But there was something missing. "But that's wrong!"

"Even if a person isn't artsy, he, she, whatever, still appreciates some form of beauty!" Harry argued, "And appreciating it and recognizing—isn't that a sign of being 'human' as opposed to animalistic? Everyone can look at a picture and decide whether it is pleasing or not, not like animals. They don't care about beauty for beauty's sake."

"And beauty—art—separates us from animals," Vivaldi concluded.

Harry's eyebrows were knit tightly together as he thought long and hard about the new information attacking his brain. "But then how can wizards claim superiority if everyone can find art satisfying just for its own sake?"

Here, Vivaldi sighed as if he were tired with the world. He placed his wig back atop his head and straightened it until it was even on both sides. "They think having more magic, artistic prowess, makes them better. I suppose more _human_ or sophisticated." Vivaldi looked straight at Harry's frustrated expression and chuckled. "But you and I both know that is not the case. It has been centuries, maybe even more than a millennium, since the prejudice first took form. And its effects have only grown stronger, whilst the reason for the split has become nothing more than a memory."

"But will bringing the reason back up do any good? Won't it just incite the pro-purebloods even more?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not. One never knows," Vivaldi said enigmatically in a manner that reminded Harry of Dumbledore. Harry huffed and looked up at the ceiling. "You're not very helpful." The composer said nothing in reply.

This was too much in light of everything. "In any case, young one, create music for yourself, and let your emotions reign in a beautiful way."

What did Vivaldi want? His emotions? His _grieving? _Had he even told Vivaldi about Sirius? Harry couldn't remember. But telling him to grieve had been a kick to the gut since he had all but forgotten about the man—it was easier to push it away—and he hadn't needed anything more. "Whatever, I'm going." It was much easier to deal with something when you didn't have to confront it.

* * *

It was only a few nights later, in the dimness of _his_ room, that Severus was able to wrap his mind around everything and just think. He was never against mindless playing, because although he didn't put his whole self into it, the music still served to calm him and help him think. Of course, mindless playing was much harder now than it had been over a decade ago.

Severus had several things to ponder. For one, Potter. Second, Draco. Third, whatever else was going on in the school.

He didn't want to ask Antonio about Potter. Doing so would admit that Severus thought Potter could be so great. If he even considered the possibility, that Potter was Vivaldi's prodigy student, it would be against his personal convictions about the miscreant. Potter could not possibly be Antonio's student! No, no!

Severus never recognized when his melody turned minor and the tone grew deeper. He supposed it only reflected the trouble in his mind. His mind shouldn't be troubled, though, because Potter couldn't be Antonio's student.

His mind snapped to a different problem, if only to save his sanity. "Draco," he whispered to himself sadly. The boy already looked ragged despite the year not even being half over. The boy was having second thoughts, Severus knew, but Draco would never act on them as long as his parents were in danger. In a way, Draco was quite the Gryffindor, in that he would do anything to save his mother and to an degree, his father. Severus supposed he should be, to some extent, pleased about Draco's changing attitude toward his father. But it unnerved him. Draco had always gone to his father for help, advice, strength—what would the boy do without his father to back him up? Surely Draco had to realize his own lack of strength and become his own man, but it seemed Draco was not willing to accept the challenge or responsibility for himself. What was he going to do with Draco?

And the Headmaster? Severus would not pretend to ignore Dumbledore's strange behavior as of late. Was it his imagination, or was the Headmaster hiding his hands?

More than that, this whole 'secret' thing seemed to be a last ditch effort to unite the school. Why now? Why not last year, when Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad was dividing the school, and the students needed a distraction from her tyranny? Perhaps having the secrets posted would have gotten Umbridge kicked out, if every student who hated her could have anonymously railed against her ridiculous policies. Why now?

Severus did not want to end with his last supposition. The Headmaster—could he be dying? It sounded very much like an old man's dying wish. He had always wanted unity, and apart from doing away with houses completely or switching people's houses randomly, Dumbledore could do nothing. And now, the man was desperate for the students to come together, if not in laughter, then in sorrow.

Those were his problems. Potter, Draco, and Dumbledore, his three constant worries. Apart from the Dark Lord. Severus sighed and abruptly stopped playing. There was no joy in playing when his thoughts were all occupied with problems.

He knew he could easily solve one right at the moment. He looked up to see Antonio busily scratching away at his paper. He started to put away his cello. "Antonio, are you incredibly busy?" Severus asked.

"Why do you ask that, Gatto? There are no degrees to busy! I'm either doing something or I'm not!" the composer complained pettily without looking up. Severus's head snapped up to look at Antonio, who merely looked at him sideways and smirked.

Severus almost laughed. Antonio was only responding to rile him up and give him some decent entertainment. "For instance, if you were recording Italian words that start with 'p' on that scratch paper there, I would say you are not busy at all. However, if you were composing your next great work, then I would say you are much too busy to talk to a common person such as myself," he said in fake humility.

Antonio could pull off the haughty look very well. "I suppose I could take a break from _il mio ultimo capolavoro_ and listen to you for a minute," the composer said, brushing fake lint off his shoulder.

"Well I really would not want to detract from your time composing, especially if it is your '_last masterpiece_.'"

"It is indeed," Vivaldi asserted, hugging the worn paper close to himself like a child with a blankey.

"Indeed?" Antonio nodded hesitantly. "Then I suppose you'd have nothing against showing it to me?" Severus suggested.

Vivaldi laughed and turned the paper toward Severus.

"Oh yes, looks like the next Mona Lisa!" Severus declared after barely stopping himself from laughing outright. Truly, Antonio was made for the violin, not the artist's pencil.

"_Realmente_? It was supposed to be you," he said, sounding put off. Severus knew that Antonio was just joking. He looked at the main stick figure in the foreground, and realized that there were three others in the background.

Severus walked up to the portrait and analyzed the doodle. "Really. Who are they? Floating by my left ear? Faeries? Pixies?"

Antonio yanked the paper back to himself and playfully glared at Severus. "They were off in the distance! You see, here's _il mio allievo di mistero_, then _il vostro _Draco, and _Sciocco manipolativo_!" Severus tried to see who Antonio's mystery student was, but stick figures didn't quite capture the appearance of a person. The only reason he could tell that the tallest and last figure in the distance was Dumbledore, the 'manipulative fool' was because his long triangle of a body was decorated with stars and he wore a tall pointy hat. The other two, Draco and the mystery student, both had black triangular bodies, complete with stick arms and stick legs.

"You are right, Antonio," Severus said, playing along, "That figure bears a striking resemblance to Draco. And the Headmaster? Spot on! However, I couldn't be sure of the other boy's identity."

Antonio puffed out his chest. "The other boy is kept ambiguous. You still do not know who he is?" He chuckled. "I am quite the artist, don't you think? I was considering dropping _la musica _entirely and _comincerò verniciare_." As if Vivaldi would ever make it as a painter. Ha! "Maybe I'll paint a portrait of a nice lady friend so I'll have someone to chat with when you and my student get into your moods!"

His student. If Severus didn't know better, he would guess that Vivaldi was trying to urge him to look for the 'student of mystery.' He thought that this would be the best time if any of assuage himself of thoughts of Potter. Truly, Antonio's student wouldn't be Potter, so asking to assure himself of that was perfectly acceptable. Right? "If that is an impossibility, I shouldn't even bother asking, since I already know the answer," he muttered to himself.

"Gatto?" Antonio asked, looking down at the man, deep in thought. "Did you have a question for me?" Yes, the composer was prompting him to ask about the mystery student.

What could it hurt?

"Antonio," he started. Was he usually this hesitant? "Do you know many of the students in the school?" he asked first. He wasn't stalling, not at all.

Vivaldi looked a bit put out. "Well, I know my student and my student's friends. I know your student. I hear of some students when I'm in my other portraits, and that's about it."

There was really nothing else to say or ask except for the one question. Severus rose to his feet and nodded to Vivaldi as he made his way to the exit. Since the 'mystery student' wasn't Potter, he didn't need to ask. Even though Potter somehow knew about the room, was caught trying to buy sheet music, and once played the violin…there was no way the boy could be the same amazing child whom Vivaldi always praised!

That's the way everything seemed to go, though, wasn't it? Everybody praised the Boy-Who-Lived. They overestimated him, underestimated him, and eventually grew to worship him. Even the Headmaster rejoiced over Potter. Severus sneered.

He walked all the way back to his quarters and seated himself in his most comfortable chair with a good book on his lap and a small glass of wine by his side. But Potter wouldn't get out of his mind. He tried brushing the thought away, and flipped open to his bookmarked page. He tried reading a few lines:

"_He was a son of God—a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that—and he must be about His Father's business, the service of a vast, vulgar, and meretricious beauty. So he invented just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen year old boy would be likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end."_

How on earth a description of Jay Gatsby reminded him of Potter, Severus never knew. He did know, however, that he wouldn't get the impossible question of Potter out of his mind until he knew that Potter was definitely not the musical genius Vivaldi always praised.

He would get to the bottom of this, and he'd finally be able to rest. He closed his old book and guzzled the last of his wine. With newfound fervor, he crept from the dungeons to find his answer.

* * *

Harry shot up out of bed, sweating and breathing hard. A nightmare? No, a vision! But he hadn't had one in ages! His mind was swirling, and he wasn't sure what he had seen. He thought he had gotten rid of those damned visions, but why were they coming back now?

Why did they stop in the first place? It was the music.

He supposed he should tell Dumbledore...it was the only rational thing to do. As he slipped out the Gryffindor common room, he realized that ever since he had rediscovered music, the visions and troubled thoughts had easily flowed away. Did he ever really notice the change that music effected? He raced to Dumbledore's office, and tried to describe his vision. He couldn't remember it, not exactly, and he had seen nothing earth-shattering .The only shocking about the vision was that he had one at all, and he said the same to Dumbledore.

"Well then, Harry, you ought to get some sleep. And you say you've had no other dreams or visions?" the man asked, trying to conceal his suspicion. Harry wasn't sure what to say.

"I've found a way to sort of meditate," and that was all he'd say. Dumbledore merely nodded and sent him on his way. Harry couldn't help but feel that going to Dumbledore had been an unecessary detour. Dumbledore hadn't done anything or said anything to help him. He needed the room.

When he flung himself into the Room of Requirement, it seemed Vivaldi had been waiting for him. 'I was wondering when you'd visit."

"I need—I need to play something, anything," he confessed.

Vivaldi nodded and smiled a relieved smile. "Now I urge you never to deny yourself the joy of music. It is a part of yourself, and especially for you, taking away music would be like cutting out your heart."

It was a strange concept. These days, he always played for Vivaldi, for his friends, if he played at all. When _was_ the last time he played for himself? Inattentively, he reached for his case and pulled out his violin. Closing his eyes, he plucked a few strings and sighed with satisfaction when they resonated through the acoustic room. The acoustic room? His eyes snapped open and bore witness to something like a performance hall. There was a stage made of glowing wood where he found himself standing, and above him were curtains, closed and anticipating the music. He wondered if the Room had also provided him with an audience, because it seemed that was a performance hall's purpose. Hesitantly, ever so nervously, he nudged the curtain aside with his bow and peeked out. Rows and rows of seats stood in eagerness like dark red rolling hills of the countryside. But not a soul was present, save Harry.

"Brilliant," he whispered. The hall carried the vibrations of his voice, sprinkling the sound all over the giant room, leaving not one crevice silent. It felt like heaven. Harry picked up his violin, and the room, understanding his intentions with excitement, threw back the curtains and concentrated the spotlights away from him.

He held the instrument up and with a confident outtake of breath, played one resounding high note that washed away the silence and traces of previous sound. Energized, he vigorously bowed the violin. Each note sought to fill the space occupied by the note before it, and sounds battled for domination. They echoed and danced and twirled around, creating a world of sound that rivaled God's creation. The world was synæsthetic, and music held a quality unknown to all until it was released in this waterfall of emotion—red, blue, green, saturated and unsaturated, bright and dull colors alike worked as sounds and the world felt like one.

And then, abruptly, the dopamine settled, and the euphoria trickled away. He was still playing, oh, was he playing, but his song was the song of his parents, and a desolate mood overcame him. The colors faded into mere sounds as the melancholy seeped into his being.

But he did not falter, and the music did not stop. The notes breathed with him and, in one sudden wave, gently abandoned him on the shore. The sound ebbed away, slowly, seeking any space left unaffected by the melody.

"Brilliant." And he was back with Vivaldi.

"Harry! What happened? One second, we were both here, and then I was somewhere else, and now I'm back here—"

"Thank you, Antonio," was all that Harry said, his eyes closed in contentment. He found it comforting rather than frustrating that no one had heard him. Although he knew that music was to be shared, it was nice to be selfish for that one all-consuming moment in which he was music and music was Harry.

Vivaldi smiled, as if he knew that something extraordinary just occurred. "I'm sure I had nothing to do with it, Harry."

Somewhere, Harry heard a resigned voice whisper, "Potter."

In one moment, his wonderland collapsed and his eyes snapped open to behold the dark and frightening manifestation of Severus Snape.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: I had most of this (10 pages) done for a while now, but it was a particular review that made me think I ought to finish up the chapter. Hopefully you'll like the little bit of funny I inserted because I needed something to smile at. There are some references to drugs and alcohol, but...you'll see. It's not too too bad, not really...And whew, it's only been what, two months? Record time! Special thanks to Mirha-Attar! Review as you see fit, and enjoy the story!

Disclaimer: This story contains characters created and owned by, including but not limited to, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic, Inc. and AOL/Time Warner, Inc. No permission has been given and since no money is being made here, no infringement is intended.

**Musical Magic**

Written by: Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

Harry blinked, just once, before pointlessly hiding his violin and bow behind his back. In his mind, he knew it was a fruitless and immature response, but dammit, _Snape_ was there! "So," he started nervously, "I guess that's 'detention for the rest of your life, Potter!' Right, yeah? So I'll just be going and I'll be in your room for detention tomorrow—"

"You don't honestly believe that I will just let you off now, hm?" Snape asked, in a reasonable voice.

Only years of having him as a potions instructor reminded Harry that Snape was never reasonable.

"I had hoped so." Harry turned toward Vivaldi, who looked absolutely giddy. "What're you so happy about?" he snapped at the composer. He thought that if Snape hadn't come that night, this night, he would have been able to forgive Vivaldi for setting him up…but Snape was here and Harry was vulnerable and exposed to Snape's mercy. Or lack thereof.

"There's no need to become testy, Mr. Potter," Snape intoned in his smooth baritone. He had such control over his voice that Harry found himself wondering if the man were a vocalist as well.

What were his options? Harry could argue, mentally blame Vivaldi for this unfortunate and inopportune meeting; he could stay stubbornly silent and prove that he was the Gryffindor idiot Snape always imagined; he could talk to Snape, figure out how much the man knew—but he decided he could just avoid it. For tonight. "You're right. No need at all. If that's it, I'll just be going up now—"

"My, my, where did all that Gryffindor courage go?" Snape practically purred, "So eager to avoid this confrontation."

"Confrontation? Professor, there is no confrontation. You just found me…fiddling around with some junk of wood, and you want to make a big deal about it?" Harry said. He was hoping Snape would just yell, throw a fit, and shout at him to get out. It seemed Snape was far craftier and more informed than Harry ever thought.

The man loomed over Harry and smirked. "Without a doubt. Just as I merely saw you 'fiddling around' with your teacher, Mrs. Blue?" Harry ignored the double entendre, hoping Snape hadn't meant to give his accusation such innuendo as _that_.

Either way, Harry froze. How did Snape know about Mrs. Blue? He hadn't even told Ron or Hermione about his beloved teacher. "What? Then you know I quit music, right?" Harry pushed. He didn't know how much Snape had heard, but he hoped that the man had only seen him holding the instrument…

"Mr. Potter," Snape started neutrally, an unfamiliar tone of voice, "A musician cannot quit music of his own will. And you, Potter, are quite clearly a musician."

Harry, in a bid to anger the man or perhaps send himself to an early grave, laughed. "Me? A musician? Listen, Snape," he spat, "I don't know what kind of pansy you think I am, but like I told you earlier, I'm not a musician, I don't like classical music—" a half-truth "—and anybody who likes that kind of trash is crazy. Thanks, but no thanks." He knew that he was being more offensive than he needed to be, but a mad Snape was fine as long as mad Snape would let him go. Typically, an enraged Snape would become too angry to tolerate Harry's presence, if the memory of the jar of cockroaches was any indication.

"I advise that you refrain from continuing this _farce_, lest you make me angry," Snape threatened. Harry almost expected the man to turn green and attack him. Knowing he was close to making Snape kick him out without having to divulge any of his secrets, Harry pushed his invectives a little more.

"Snape, I don't care how angry you get, because frankly, _Snivellus's _opinion doesn't matter to me." Harry wasn't sure if he'd gone too far, but he was already over the cliff and falling. He might as well have some fun on the way down. "More than that, I find it kind of funny that the greasy bat of the dungeon is a classical-music loving pansy." He was dead. He was so dead.

It seemed the jab had done its job, as the professor was seething and had his hand on a very heavy, very breakable glass figurine. "Get out! Out!" the man shouted. Although Harry was relieved at his narrow escape, he couldn't help but feel ashamed of his words. He ducked out of the room, avoiding Snape's eyes, for fear that the man see his guilt.

It just felt wrong, belittling music the way he had, and using part of Snape's worst memory against him. Not to mention that his mother had loved music…not to mention that in the past few months, music had become part of himself. Denying his connection tore at him much more now than it had when he had first denied it in the Diagon Alley bookstore. Harry didn't go straight to the Gryffindor common room. He had too much on his mind, too much on his heart. What could he do, where could he go? Without an answer to his questions or problems, he let himself roam around the castle until his weary mind begged him to sleep.

"Harry, where were you last night?" Ron whispered urgently as Harry blearily floated into the boy's dorm.

"Ron, just…the Room," he said hesitantly.

Ron rolled his eyes and pushed Harry toward his bed so that Harry was sitting down and looking up at Ron's agitated face. "Yeah right! We checked! Hermione was out of her mind—I should actually tell her you're here now. You know, this is just like the beginning of the year, when you were sneaking out, and—"

"And it's not a good time to remind me that you guys falsely accused me of outrageous things. I'll tell you both after breakfast. I'm really tired," Harry responded, standing up slowly. He put a heavy hand on Ron's shoulder and pushed him out of the room. "I'll be down in five, okay?"

Ron seemed uncertain, but acquiesced anyway. "Sure, I'll tell Hermione not to get on your case until after breakfast."

Harry sent him a thankful half-smile and closed the door. In less than five minutes, he was changed and sitting on a comfortable chair positioned across the dying embers.

"Harry," a feminine voice breathed, relieved.

"Hermione, I'm fine," he immediately said, to stem the possible inquiries.

She stood before him with her arms crossed, and agitatedly blew a few strands of hair away from her face. "Thank Merlin, you are. Let's just all get something to eat before breakfast ends, and on the way you can tell us where you spent the night, because it was definitely not in the Room."

Harry was thankful toward Hermione for not grilling him the moment she saw him. "Yeah, thanks. That sounds better. I was just in the Room, practicing, and then…it's actually semi-unbelievable."

Ron scoffed playfully. "It's Hogwarts. The only thing I wouldn't believe would be if Voldemort showed up and started critiquing your violining skills," he said, imitating a rock violinist.

Harry and Hermione chuckled. Harry had to say, though, "You're close, you're very warm." Hermione looked at him and laughed again.

"Sure he is. Then I suppose Draco Malfoy waltzed in and played a violin piano duet with you?" she added, joining the ridiculous theories. Harry thought it was funny that his friends had picked two of his three worst enemies to imagine.

"You're even hotter, I think. If the truth were a giant car, and you guys were metal detectors, then you'd be off the hook beeping," Harry said. He wasn't sure if Ron understood his simile, but the redhead was laughing anyway.

"Wait, wait, don't tell me!" Ron said, as they entered the Great Hall.

Hermione giggled and shushed him with a finger. "I know, don't I, Harry?" she asked in a fake haughty voice.

"No, I know!" Ron scream-whispered when he realized the rest of Gryffindor was looking at the three of them.

Harry took a seat and looked to either of his friends. "Okay, what do you think? I'll tell you anyway."

Together, as if rehearsed and planned, Harry's two best friends whispered at the same time, "Snape."

Harry laughed and nodded, but they didn't seem surprised, only happy and maybe relieved. It was a little strange. Wait. "Did you two know it was Snape?"

Ron shrugged and put a friendly arm around Harry's shoulders as he grabbed a breakfast roll. "We did go to the Room yesterday, and we ran into Vivaldi. We were worried about where you went after Snape apparently threatened to clog you in the head with a giant violin-shaped vase."

Harry shook his head. "It was a small glass bottle shaped like a violin." He chewed on some food, probably eggs. He really wasn't paying that much attention to the mush on his plate. He glanced down. At least the eggs looked like eggs instead of deformed yellow chunks. "And I just walked around the castle until I got tired, and I took a nap somewhere. Not sure where, but I think it might have actually been the divination classroom—pillows and all that. I was kind of comfortable, if I remember right."

"You walked up the ladder to Trelawney's domain?" Ron asked skeptically. Harry had to admit that the story sounded weird. He didn't remember going up or down a ladder.

He told them so and added, "For some reason, I was comfortable. So I don't think I took a nap on some stones. And I don't think I ended up in anybody's bedroom. Trelawney's classroom is the only possibly open room, apart from the Room of Requirement that would have pillows, right?"

Hermione looked at him strangely. "You don't remember how you woke, or how you got be standing in front of the boy's dorm?"

Harry hesitated. "Actually, I think….I think maybe I woke up on a couch in the common room, but I definitely didn't stop there. I don't think. Does it matter? I'm alright, everything's fine, and Ron, we have detention tonight," he added just so that Ron wouldn't forget. He hadn't really been thinking; it was just a stray thought that managed to get vocalized through no decision of his own.

"I should have known. Okay, boys, we'll be doing our studying earlier, then, since you won't have time in the evening. Thank you for informing me, Harry."

Ron glared at him. "Yeah. Thanks, Harry."

That evening, Harry cautiously walked into the potions classroom, Ron in tow. Snape was busily scratching on some parchment with red ink, sneering at times and sending hate glances toward the papers. Harry looked at Ron, not knowing how to proceed. In response, he elbowed Harry in the gut, eliciting a soft, "Ow!"

Snape's head snapped up and he glared at the two boys. "You. You're with Filch tonight. Meet him in the Great Hall." Ron scowled, and turned to leave. Harry sighed a breath of relief and started to follow Ron. "Potter!" Snape snapped. Harry shared a mournful look with Ron as Snape continued, "Where do you think you're going? Stay here. Weasley, you might want to hurry before Filch warms up his legendary thumbscrews."

Ron sent Harry an apologetic look and bolted from the Potions room. Snape jerked his head toward a student desk, and Harry took that to mean he should sit in it. A cauldron suddenly appeared beside him, still smoking with something foul. He tried not to smell it, but the stink was so pervasive that he could smell the stench even when he tried to breathe through his mouth. Cleaning supplies appeared on the desk, and Harry sighed. No doubt what he'd be doing for the rest of the afternoon. He wondered if Snape was still mad—Harry was never sure of Snape's temperament, since the man had said hardly a word to him after sent Ron away. Moments dragged on, as the man coldly scrawled red ink over the papers. Harry could feel his attention slipping away, as his eyes wandered over the sparse classroom. Stone after stone after stone… "What would I get if I added an A to an E-flat?" a pointed voice pierced Harry's ears.

"Er,,,"

"Answer, Potter! Either you know it or you don't!"

Harry tried to hear the two notes playing in his head, but he couldn't remember playing anything like it. It didn't help that the cauldron's reek was interfering with his thought process. "Something unpleasant?" he answered. Snape's lip curled unattractively, and Harry wondered if the man's reaction meant he had been anywhere near right. Or if perhaps the smell was also getting to the man.

Snape actually looked up at him and asked him, straightforwardly, "Potter, in what intervals would you find me perfect consonance?"

Harry supposed he should have known the answer to a question like this. "Er, an octave?" responded. What kind of question was that, anyway? Snape's eyes went back to his papers at Harry's uncertain voice.

"Asking or telling, Potter?"

"Telling." _I think._

"What is the difference, Potter, between A-sharp and B-flat?"

Snape's head was still bent, as if Harry didn't merit the man's full attention. Annoyed, Harry said, "They're the same thing." It was the simplest question of the bunch, and his response seemed to catch the potionmaster's attention.

"Indeed." Snape stood up, tucked his papers into a drawer, and locked it. He walked around his desk so that he was looking down at Harry. "For your information, Potter, an A and E-flat, played together, make a tritone, also known as augmented fourth, diminished fifth, or, in some contexts, _diabolus in musica._ Perfect consonance can be found in octaves, also called the miracle of music, and in unisons, as well as perfect fifths, and, in some occasions, perfect fourths. As for A-sharp and B-flat they are the same note, which also goes by the name of C-double flat."

"What, no G-triple sharp?" Harry muttered. This encounter was oddly familiar to Harry. Something—he wasn't sure of it—but something struck him like déjà vu.

"Shouldn't I ask why you aren't writing this down?" Snape asked, not as hostilely as Harry would have expected.

That was it! This felt exactly like his first potions class. "I don't have any materials, _Sir_," Harry answered. This time around, it still wasn't his fault. Harry wondered if Snape recognized the similarity of this evening to their first Potions class. He supposed that Snape never really did anything without reason, but what reason could the man have for making him relive his harrowing first class?

"I should also wonder why Vivaldi would teach you Italian but not music theory. These intervals are some of the most basic relationships between notes; at least, they are the most memorable. That last question was to see if you knew anything at all about music," he sneered. Snape took his seat behind his desk again and crossed his arms.

It seemed Harry couldn't dissuade Snape from thinking him a violinist. The man was resolute in his thoughts, and he seemed most certain that Harry was a violinist, albeit, a very uneducated one. And apparently, a very gullible one. Harry supposed his Gryffindor pride just wouldn't allow Snape to think him an idiot in something he _knew_ he was well-versed.

"Is this my detention?" Harry almost growled. "Are you going to grill me about music theory until you either prove me a bumbling idiot or prove me some amazing fictional violinist?"

Snape laughed, but Harry wasn't quite sure. It was harsh, with a cackle that resembled the timbre of hags' coughs. It was just plain unpleasant. "You are fooling yourself, Potter. I discussed this with Antonio last night, and he told me quite a bit. _Quite a bit_."

Harry froze. Vivaldi wouldn't release his biggest secret, right? He wasn't sure. After all, it seemed the composer would stop at nothing to unite father and son, despite the misfortune it would bring to all involved.

"Let's see, Potter. Apparently, you left your dorm almost _nightly_! Not to mention, you seem to have mastered some ridiculous concertos all on your own. Correct me if I am wrong, Potter, but is it true you are currently learning to master Accolay's Concerto No.1 in A minor?"

Was that all? That's all Vivaldi told him? Harry had the urge to whoop and punch the air in happiness that Snape didn't know his biggest secret. "I can, but it doesn't mean it's any good," Harry said. He didn't want to make himself sound that great, since really, he wasn't. He'd only started the violin again that summer, and although Vivaldi kept telling him he was making amazing progress, Harry knew friends often exaggerate.

Snape chuckled, but it sounded much more human than his last laugh. "Potter, how long have you been playing?"

"Er, altogether?"

He looked unhappy. "How about this, how long did you play as a child, and what was the last piece you played at the end of that time?"

"I played…maybe for three years. And er, I think it was a Vivaldi Concerto." _in A Minor, 3rd Movement_, Harry thought to himself.

Snape nodded, but he was still scribbling something. "Did you practice during the summers when you were younger?"

Harry shook his head. "It was a school violin. I usually practiced during lunch and during orchestra and whenever I had free time before and after school."

Snape kept scribbling. Harry was tempted to lean forward and read what the man was writing, because his detention was starting to feel more like a therapy session than a detention.

"What method did you employ?" the man continued.

Harry tried to study the man, to figure out Snape's plan. This strangely civil man cloaked in black was nothing like the potionsmaster he'd known for five years. Harry wondered where the short-tempered derisive man went. "I don't think I understand."

"What is there to understand, Potter!" There he was. "Suzuki, Kodaly, Dalcroze, any number of methods. Don't tell me you just picked up the instrument and you could suddenly play anything!"

Harry was tempted to tell the man just that, just for fun. He didn't know if he used any method. His teacher hadn't mentioned any method.

"In other words, how did you learn?" Snape asked, apparently having calmed himself.

"I er, read books, listened to Mrs. Blue, and practiced whenever I could. Is that any method?" Harry asked, borderline offensively. He knew his voice had become angry with the constant barrage of questions that seemed to have little importance.

"You did not listen to classical music before you started? Did you learn your first pieces by ear? Or did you learn to sing first?" Snape seemed to be drilling for something, but for what, Harry didn't know.

Harry almost wished he could just clean cauldrons and smash insects or anything else. This Snape was unnerving. "No, I learned to_ read_ first. I guess that's weird compared to everyone else, but I did. Then I listened to Mrs. Blue, and eventually, she became something of a private teacher until I…well, until I didn't want to play anymore," Harry tried lying to cover his close slip.

"And when, Mr. Potter," Snape was trying to be civil again. "Did you start private lessons with this Mrs. Blue?"

"Two years before I stopped, I think. S- Professor Snape, tell me again why you need to know any of this?"

"It seems that once again, you've defied the rules of learning music. That is a ridiculous and inefficient way to learn anything. You sound just like that know-it-all Granger! Do you realize what this means, Potter?"

No, Harry had no idea what it meant. Harry had no idea what was going on.

"That is all, Potter. You are dismissed."

What?

"What?"

"I said, you are dismissed! Go on, and don't forget you have another detention from—Merlin remembers when. Make sure to retrieve your lackey from Filch's clutches before I have to reattach anyone's fingers." Snape snapped his fingers, and the cauldron disappeared, the smell going with it.

Harry still didn't know what was happening, but took advantage of the opportunity to go, and fled.

* * *

"I thought they were torture devices. They were horrible things, really," Ron said, telling his friends, in detail, about what he saw in Filch's office. "There was one, made of cold metal, and it resembled scissors, but instead of blades, there were these two arched _things_ that pushed against each other when you squeezed the handles with your fingers. I asked Filch—"

"You asked him?" Hermione gasped, half in mock-fear and half in surprise that he'd want to speak to a man like Filch.

Ron nodded and gulped. He bent forward, as if reaching the climax of an exciting story. "And you know what he said?"

"No, what?" Harry asked. He wondered what that torturous device could do. Pull a tooth? Squeeze a finger off? Perhaps it held the meaning of life. What was it anyway, the meaning of life? Why were they there, sitting there, talking about eyelash curlers? Was there a point to it all?

"He said that almost all muggle women used them on their eyes. Their eyes!" Ron exclaimed. "And he'd confiscated it from a muggleborn student! Probably from Slytherin, I bet."

Harry thought hard about what Ron could have been describing. The eyelash curler of existence. Aunt Petunia hadn't owned anything near that frightening, and Harry was starting to doubt that Ron knew what he was talking about. Could anyone know what anyone was saying? In fact, he was sure that Ron had no idea about what he was saying when he looked over at Hermione and saw her laughing. It was nice, pretty, like an A major chord.

"Are you serious, Ronald?" she said between laughs. She seemed to think for a minute and the room conjured something in her lap.

"That's it! That's exactly what it looked like!" Ron exclaimed in terror.

Harry started to laugh too. His laugh also sounded nice, but not A major. Like…a major third, maybe in E flat. Ron hadn't described the eyelash curler of existence very well. Not well at all. "An eyelash curler, Ron?" Harry laughed as well, savoring the sound. Their redheaded friend glared at both of them and cautiously picked up the metal contraption.

"Don't tell me this doesn't look nasty. Look at it!" He put his fingers in it as he would with scissors and closed and opened the thing, trying to make it look dangerous. Harry had seen his aunt use that same device before important dinners and even when she was just going out for groceries. Did she? He thought she did.

"It's not dangerous at all, Ron," Hermione started, glancing quickly at Harry. She took the curler and brought to her eye. Harry glanced at Ron and saw his apprehension as she closed the curler around her eyelashes. Ron was leaning forward, his breath quickening and his face growing worried as Hermione slowly used the women's fashion tool and brought it down, her eyelash freshly curled. And suddenly, the thing flew from her hands, and she lied limp in her armchair.

"Hermione! No! I told you, didn't I? Hermione!" Ron rushed to her side and put his hands on the sides of her head, looking at her eyes. "What's wrong? Harry, why aren't you doing anything?" Harry was still sitting in his seat, holding his sides from laughter. "Harry, why the hell are you laughing?! Get the headmaster, Madame Pomfrey, anyone!" At that, Hermione's body started to convulse, and Ron, panicked, could only sit and watch as Hermione stood up and pat him on the back.

"Told you, it's not dangerous," she said with a laugh.

Ron looked from Harry's laughing face to Hermione's and glared at them both. "That wasn't funny! So what am I supposed to think if Harry suddenly faints? What if I wrongly assume it's a stupid prank?" He grumbled.

"Honestly," Hermione started, wiping a mirthful tear from the corner of her eye, "your face! An eyelash curler is only dangerous if you throw it as someone. And I looked at Harry before I did anything, so he'd know not to panic."

"Pft. So now you and Harry can communicate telepathically? Sure. Thanks for leaving me out of the loop," he complained.

"Just a prank, Ron. Harmless fun. Besides, the Room of Requirement couldn't conjure a cursed object," Harry reasoned. However, Hermione looked around the room strangely and rested her eyes on the curler of existence.

She picked it up and placed it on the shelf that held all the musical odds and ends. "I'm not so sure. I highly doubt it, but well, you never know. I wonder…if you wish for a cursed object, would the room grant it? Of course, you wouldn't be able to take it from the room, but…"

"That is a frightening suggestion," Harry said quietly. Everything was frightening, especially that curler. It could be cursed, waiting for someone to take it so it could send a poisonous toxin through a wizard's eye!

"Too much seriousness and fright for one afternoon. Let's do something artsy," Ron suggested, "You were going to help 'develop my talent.' as Hermione put it. Well?"

Harry smiled. "Of course, Ron. You'll be singing for the Queen in no time," he said airily.

Ron snorted. "You think so?"

"Of course!" Hermione assured him with a playful pat on the back. "By the way, you know that whole thing was just for fun, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. But really, I'd have no idea what muggle items are dangerous and what are safe. Just this summer, Dad was saying that a wet blow-dryer could kill people. Who would've thought it? It just blows hot air!"

"Well, that's not really the dangerous part."

* * *

"Aren't you supposed to be the _brilliant_ muggle?" Draco asked irritably.

Vivaldi merely laughed. "Yes, so? It's a simple question, I do not see why you cannot answer it yourself." If anything, the composer looked bored, lounging in his portrait with nothing else to do.

Draco let out a huge breath of air in an exasperated sigh. "I want to see if you know the answer!"

"I don't see what this has to do with anything. Gato just asked me to work you…"

"Babysit!" Draco shouted in anger. "Severus just wants me to be a cellist like him, or become any sort of a musician. He's just like everyone else."

Vivaldi looked much more interested in this conversation. "How so? Gato just wants the best for you."

Draco glared at the painting. "Just as Father wants the best for me, and Mother wants the best for me, and the Dark Lord, _who wants the best for me_. Everyone thinks he knows what's best for me, and won't let me decide for myself! I'm practically an adult!"

"Doesn't sound like it," Vivaldi muttered. Draco's glare intensified, and although it was more effective than his childish glares in first year, it was a galaxy away from having Severus's intensity. "That whining of yours has got to stop. You say you are almost an adult, but all I hear from you are complaints. Take this opportunity to relax. Don't think of your duties and responsibilities. For now, just be you. Just be Draco Malfoy."

"Hmph." Draco crossed his arms.

"Alright then, just be Draco. There are no Malfoys in this room. There is only one boy, Draco."

"If only." Draco just couldn't stop his snide comments from slipping out.

Vivaldi frowned. "If you wish, I will leave too."

Draco waved his request away. "No, don't go. Can't you just tell me why he thinks you can teach me anything?"

The redhead's eyes went upward as if the man were in deep thought. After a second of maintaining his pose, he looked to Draco and started with a question. "Are you an artist?"

"What kind of pointless question is that? At least my question had some potential."

Vivaldi shook his head, his white locks swinging about his face like a tired willow tree. "Tell me, Draco, are you an artist?"

"No, okay!" Draco shot up from his chair and glared daggers at the man. "For the last time, I'm not going to play some stupid instrument, I'm not going to paint stupid pictures, and I will never—do you hear me, never! –going to be some fool!"

"Is that how you consider Severus Snape?" the conductor's low voice almost growled. "You consider _art—" _

Draco threw his arms up and scoffed at the man. "Useless things! The world has no need for these pointless aesthetics! Don't you realize that there's more going on in the world than what's happening in this castle, in this room? There's a damn war! And-and you're telling me to ignore my duties and put aside reality to squander my time pursuing a so-called _art _with no purpose?"

"Yes." The simple frank answer had Draco exhausted and drained.

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I can't believe I thought anything could come of this farce. I doubt you'll ever see me again. I have other stuff to do." Draco was tired, angry, stressed, overwhelmed. Vivaldi could tell from his weary movements and the dark rings supporting his eyes. He could swear he saw white hair amid all that platinum blond. The boy walked to the door, and as his hand landed upon the doorknob, turned and looked back. "No, I'm not sorry to disappoint you. Like I said, I have a lot of other stuff to do, and this can only distract me. Thank you for trying, though."

Vivaldi nodded, but didn't look as disappointed as one would think. "Not just trying, young Draco, succeeding."

* * *

Severus brooded over his alcohol like a starving lion over a decaying carcass. That damn Potter! He didn't know what to think, what to believe! Potter knew music. The fact that Potter didn't know what the technical name of a tritone was didn't surprise Severus. Rather, it was the fact that Potter could hear the tones in his head and make a conclusion about the chord that disturbed him. Potter couldn't have perfect pitch. No, it was impossible. Severus had only met a handful of people with absolute pitch, and Potter would never be among them!

He sipped his rakija slowly, wondering why he didn't just order a salad to complement it. Yes, something like a shopska salad, even though he wasn't very hungry. He sipped from his glass again, hoping things would start to make sense. Why Potter? He grouched to himself, why not Draco?

'Because, Severus,' his inner voice chided, 'Draco is not a musician, a writer, or a painter. Don't try to make him one.'

"He would be a good writer," he muttered. "Or an actor." Draco always seemed to lean toward the dramatic. Flinging his arms, snapping his fingers, screeching his grievances; Draco was a real diva when he wanted to be. "But a filmmaker? I should have never given him that video camera recorder." Maybe if Severus hadn't shown him an alternative he liked, Draco wouldn't be so conflicted. But then he would more easily succumb to the dark side if he didn't have that connection to the Muggle world. Which Draco hated.

Even Draco was hurting his head. Dumbledore…Severus wasn't going to go into that.

He growled into his drink and wished, not for the first time, that Potter never existed. He imagined the skinny boy through the window. The slight boy, with sad eyes and weak arms. You were able to play a Vivaldi concerto, after three years of study, the most important of which was spent without a teacher. You didn't have summer or winter holidays, nor it seems did you practice at home.

His mind took the little boy, stretched him vertically and little horizontally, until he was a young man. His eyes were fierce, just like Lily's, and he was confident and arrogant, with that _same_ beat up violin he used when he was a child. More than that, you've been at this school for less than six months, and not only have you recovered all that you lost from neglecting the instrument for five years, but you have more than improved.

The imaginary boy looked at him with begging eyes, eyes that blocked himfrom Potter's mind completely when they couldn't even throw him out the year before. Do you realize, Potter, that it would take a normal, or even a gifted person, at the least, a year or two to be able to go from playing the easiest Vivaldi concerto to playing that Accolay concerto with any sort of proficiency?

What are you?

Snape scoffed. Potter, though he seemed like a musical prodigy, was nothing in potions. A second year would realize that the cauldrons he had out didn't smell right. Snape at least thought a Muggle teenager would recognize the smell of hashish. Sure, it was illegal in the _Muggle _world, but Severus imagined that only the Ministry of Magic's laws applied to him within Hogwarts. And the ministry didn't care about Muggle drugs at all. Severus had been trying for years to get the United Kingdom to change the cannabis from Class B to Class C. It wasn't nearly as dangerous as people thought. And it wasn't like Severus hadn't broken the rules before. After all, what educational institution would allow anyone to bring in alcohol?

The high was weak anyway, only potent enough to loosen the boy's tongue. But had it really helped? What had he learned from giving Potter that detention? Severus thought. Well, for one, he learned Potter was a pathetic liar. No matter what Dumbledore said, Potter would always be a Gryffindor. Anybody who played as Potter had played…Severus shivered…would never voluntarily give up music. There was more to Potter, as much as Severus hated it, and he needed to look into it. Somehow.

"Severus?"

Black hair whipped around violently, as Severus glared at the man interrupting his thoughts. "What do you want, Headmaster?" he asked, trying to keep his irritation hidden.

"I must speak with you. Whenever you have the time, of course," the man said with a sagacious nod toward Severus' empty room. "May I floo in?"

There was no use stopping him anyway. Severus made an over-exaggerated sweep of his arm, welcoming the man with sarcasm.

"Thank you, Severus. Now, I've been worried about Potter."

Potter! Would that brat never leave him alone?

"Is this a recent problem?" Severus asked, wondering if he would get in trouble for drugging the famous Harry Potter.

"No, not at all. More than that…I was planning to give him a task, Severus. You know the cause and consequences of this," the old man said, holding up a withered hand. "I need Harry to carry on my work once I go."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Once you go? Are you mad? You're not dying any time soon, Albus. The war isn't done with you."

The Headmaster shook his head, his hair swaying sadly like the mane of a fallen lion. "Severus, you know what I've been hunting. You know. And you must be the one to give Harry his instructions, should I pass away before I'm finished. Don't—" Albus raised a hand when it seemed Severus would interrupt him, "say a thing, Severus. I would give him these instructions myself, but, well, he's only sixteen."

Severus was impassive. He had only been sixteen when he joined the Dark Lord. Even Draco was only sixteen. There was no time for childhood in the midst of war. There were only sides and battles. "I thought you had intended to tell him about the Dark Lord…about Riddle. You were supposed to tell him of those cursed relics. Potter's age has never deterred you before," Severus said bitterly, thinking about all the dangerous opportunities Dumbledore had given to Potter for the sake of heroics. "Don't tell me you've suddenly grown a conscious, old man."

Dumbledore shook his head again. "I've always thought Harry was too young, but he needed the training and the practice for when he comes face to face with Tom. I see him these days, Severus, and I suddenly wish he could still be a child, and that that cursed prophecy had never been borne upon us. But the days pass, and this hand grows blacker. It'll spread to the rest of my body, Severus, a gangrenous sore. There's no stopping it. If worse comes to worse, and I die before this year runs out, give Harry my instructions and my love."

"Why now, Albus?" Severus wondered. Why now instead of before, or later? Why now, when Severus had just had his reality turned sideways? "Why?"

The old man sighed the sigh of a weary man. "I spoke with Horace today. Horace Slughorn, and even though he did not grace me with the memory, he still had the event at the forefront of his mind."

"I never thought you'd use Legilimency like that," Severus said.

"I never thought I'd have to, my boy." Dumbledore nodded to Severus in farewell and faced the fireplace. "Have you been watching Harry? There seems to be something strange about him, and my portrait of Vivaldi seems to know an awful lot about it. He said that you'd begin to understand Harry tonight. For his sake, I hope so. You will need to trust each other in the years to come."

"Or months," Severus muttered morbidly.

"Or weeks," Albus concluded airily, turning to look Severus in the eyes. Surely the man couldn't be serious! Weeks? "But I still have much to do before the summer holidays. I will see you at breakfast tomorrow?"

Severus nodded. Trust Albus to give himself an expiration date and then attempt to go beyond it.

Albus had a handful of floo powder in one hand and his robes covering his other. "Oh, and Severus?"

"Yes?"

"Harry was found staring at a muggle eyelash curler in the Gryffindor common room asking about the meaning of existence for an eyelash curler. Now, I do love it when students have the metaphysical experience, but not when they've been drugged by cannabis. Please take this into consideration for his next detention. Good night." Damn that Albus, he knew everything.

* * *

"So why am I here again?" Draco complained.

"Did you ever answer your question?" the composer asked as if he had not a care in the world. He smiled at Draco as if their argument had never existed.

Draco pouted. "_I_ know the answer. I wanted to know if you did."

"Well, then tell me," he said amiably. It was strange, as if the composer was suddenly at peace.

Draco took a breath. "If a tree falls in the woods and no one's around to hear it, does it make a sound?"

"Of course not," Vivaldi claimed easily. Draco blinked. It was a philosophical question, one not meant to have a distinct answer. It was a question about existence—so what kind of answer was that? The composer continued, "Sound is the perception of sound waves, and if there is no one to hear it, then sound does not exist."

"That's faulty logic, especially since your term is incorrectly defined," Draco sneered haughtily.

"Then what's the point of posing such a question if you do not like my answer and if there is no one set answer?" Vivaldi asked.

"To find out how you think. Apparently, you are a very scientific thinker, and you probably deal well with abstractness. Am I right?"

Vivaldi shrugged. "To a degree. Now, do I get to ask you question?"

Draco almost laughed again. Vivaldi would never make a good Slytherin. He could tell from the beginning that Vivaldi was only cooperating because of some ulterior motive. And here it was. "Go ahead."

"You know art is not a merely Muggle thing, right?" Vivaldi asked patiently.

Draco rolled his eyes. "You're ridiculous. Only Muggles would do things so uselessly. I don't understand why Purebloods keep the tradition of wasting their time on art."

Vivaldi laughed. "No one knows? No one? My dear boy, art is a magical thing! It belongs to all people, Wizarding and Muggle, because it speaks to the human aesthetic."

"Ha!" scoffed Draco, "What kind of tripe is that? No one believes something so archaic."

"Archaic?"

"Of course. Some crazy wizards still believe that and they wasted their entire lives trying to gain more magic through music and art. It's pretty much a consensus among wizards that art is only ever done for its own sake. Not for magical improvement."

Vivaldi shook his head sadly. "Because that's true, Draco! If they did not pursue _l'art per l'arte_, of course they'd show no magical progress! Are you dim, _ragazzo_? _Il mio Dio!"_

"Why are you getting yourself so worked up? You know I'm not perfect with Italian," Draco muttered, as if he didn't want to vocalize his failings too loudly.

"That's what angers me, young Draco, that people will use art for purposes other than art."

Draco laughed bitterly. "But Vivaldi, they already do that! They use it for political means, for social change, for livening offices, for spying—those are what the portraits are for—, and for a lot of other stuff. No one ever does it for fun anymore."

Vivaldi visibly deflated. "Not so. I know that Gato and Focosina always played for music's sake, and their child always plays for music's sake as well."

Draco almost fell out of his chair as he stared bug-eyed at the composer. "Severus has a kid?!"


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** Sorry about the time between updates. Life has not been agreeable. This chapter is dedicated to anyone who is unhappy. Because we need someone on our side. This chapter is on the shorter side because I wanted to stop at a certain point and let you all speculate. on a completely different note, has anyone seen the live action of Nodame Cantabile? It's wonderful.

**Disclaimer:** Usually I copy/paste my disclaimer from old chapters, but since this is the third time I've had to write this out, let's just leave it at "SF does not own Harry Potter."

**Musical Magic**

by Shiruba Fokkusu

* * *

"You are of course aware of the effect music has on wizards, yes?" Snape asked, not even bothering with a sneer.

Harry almost rolled his eyes, but figured that it was a reasonable question. After all, he'd known nothing about the connection between art and magic until that year. "Vivaldi told me enough."

This time, Snape did sneer. "In that aspect, Antonio is wrong. Many of his beliefs are wrong."

Wrong? Snape just admitted that music affects people, and that was basically Vivaldi's theory anyway. "That's exactly what you said!" Harry argued. He wasn't afraid of earning more detentions; he had pretty much sworn away all his afternoons to Snape anyway.

"The idiocy of your generation!"

Harry scoffed.

"And of my generation," Snape added as an aside. Concentrating more on Harry, Snape continued. "I said that music affects a wizard. Art by itself does no such thing. Music is separate from art!"

Harry was tempted to scoff again. "Are you high? Of course music is art! It's a performing art!"

Snape smirked, and Harry wondered what was so funny. "Did you ever learn philosophy in your muggle school?" Snape asked abruptly.

What was Snape getting at, just randomly changing the topic? What did philosophy have to do with anything?

"Or perhaps did you ever learn of Pythagoras? Or, as you have now restarted to play the violin, have you learned anything of music theory?" Snape asked with supercilious brow.

Harry could feel his cheeks reddening as he had to shake his head at every single inquiry. "I stopped muggle schooling when I was ten. They don't teach philosophy to ten year-olds," Harry reasoned. After all, there was no reason for him to know any of the stuff. Not even many wizards dabbled in philosophy.

Snape grilled him. "And your excuse for knowing nothing of music theory? If I sat you down in front of a piano and asked you to play a C major scale, would you be able? If I told you to play a diminished seventh chord, could you do it?"

"I never learned the piano, Snape," Harry growled, "and it's not like any of that stuff is important to _my_ music anyway."

Snape scoffed, much how Harry had scoffed earlier. "You are not playing simple music: folk tunes and rock music! A violinist ought to be aware of the elements in a piece. You ought to be able to identify what a composer was aiming toward in composing a piece. You cannot merely play with a blind ear, Potter. You must know the theoretical techniques! Great Merlin, I need to lock you up and have you listen to some good jazz."

Maybe Harry did wear his emotions too obviously, because it seemed that Snape could instantly tell how shocked he was that _Severus Snape_ liked jazz. "What?" the man said defensively.

"Nothing, I just figured you'd like the most straightforward kind of music, like Baroque or Classical."

Harry experienced a frightening thing when, instead of curling up one end, Snape's mouth curled at _both ends_, as if he were smiling. Harry cursed mentally when he realized that Snape was smiling. At Harry. "Obviously, we do not know each other, Potter. I enjoy many kinds of music, much of which you probably don't know exists. As for jazz there must be some kind of precision to harmonize, and most improvising jazz musicians know music theory. As for Baroque and Classical, well, Mr. Potter, I find that, much like you, I'm not partial toward Classical music."

"Yeah, okay. Well, if there's nothing else, I think I have homework to do, and things to work on," Harry said, trying to get out of this detention/meeting/psych session.

* * *

"Where'd you get it, Harry?" Seamus asked, concern overcoming his voice.

"Huh?" Harry responded intelligently.

Seamus shook his head angrily. "Harry, you've no idea how dangerous that stuff is!"

"What stuff?" Harry wondered. Seamus seemed to lean toward Harry, and Harry leaned further back accordingly. And he _sniffed_ him.

"At least you don't smell like that anymore. I'm telling you, Harry, you don't ever want to be involved in _that kind of stuff_. I swear, if it happens again, I'll tell Hermione, and she'll set you straight, whether you want it or not!" With that, Seamus turned his heel and walked away.

Harry just looked on, wondering what that confrontation was all about.

"Hey mate, what did Seamus want with you?" Ron asked, walking up to him.

Harry shrugged. "I have no idea. Something about smelling bad?"

"Oh, you mean how you smelled when you got back from Snape's yesterday. Yeah, don't ever use that cologne again. Smells weird."

"Er, okay," Harry said, wondering what Ron was talking about.

* * *

The composer was wringing his hands and avoiding eye contact. "Gatto? With a child! Heavens no, I meant, that, Gatto er, he, that is, Gatto, if he ever had children—"

"Do you think I'm dim?" Draco hissed, "You are a horrible liar. Tell me the truth, or so help me, I'll go straight to Severus, and he'll tell me the truth."

The portrait seemed to pale, but Draco couldn't be sure. "Fine. Severus doesn't know, you can't tell him!"

"Can't tell him he has a kid? Who would keep that from a father!" Draco almost shouted. He was only tempering his voice because he had always been trained to keep a refined tone.

"The child told me not to tell. He really doesn't have the best relationship with him, so he doesn't want Gatto to know—"

"Aha! So it's a boy. Who knows Sev, but doesn't have a good relationship." Draco snorted, "but that could be any kid not in Slytherin." _But this boy knows Vivaldi_. That would narrow it down.

Draco simmered quickly. "Okay, I won't tell a soul," Draco said, smiling sweetly. That didn't mean he wasn't going to find out who the heck this kid was. "So, when should I come back?"

Vivaldi looked relieved that Draco was backing off. "I will get back to you through Gatto. Thank you for understanding," Vivaldi said with a sweeping bow. Draco nodded, feeling not a bit guilty for deceiving the composer. Not a bit.

* * *

"Potter, even I have lost track of how many detentions you have earned. No doubt, it would amount to more than a year's worth. I believe I am being lenient when I decide to move your detentions to Saturday, seven in the morning for two hours until a time at which I have seen your behavior improve."

"I thought you considered me a musician," Harry grumbled to himself, "And _musicians_ would be nicer to each other. 'Cause they're all on the same side, really."

The man gave a short, sharp laugh. "You would be surprised at the dissention among _us musicians_. Ever heard of Camille Saint-Saëns?" Snape asked, looking through his shelves diligently. He pulled out some sheet music and shrunk the pages.

"Yeah, Carnival of the Animals, Danse Macabre, some kind of violin concerto, a really famous cello concerto…that's all I know that he composed."

Snape nodded, as if satisfied with Harry's paltry answer. "Did you like his music?"

"Er, yes, I suppose. Danse Macabre was amazing, but it wouldn't be as good for a single violin."

"Have you heard of Stravinsky?"

Harry had no idea how they were connected. "I'm not sure. I don't think I've ever played any of his works," Harry admitted.

"I'm sure you've heard at least part of his work," Snape said disbelievingly. "Perhaps Firebird? Rite of Spring ring any bells in that empty head of yours?" Snape walked over to a high shelf and summoned a tiny vial full of silver stuff. Harry recognized it—a memory. And there, the pensieve that had gotten him into trouble the year before.

Harry brushed off the insult. "Kind of…I didn't listen to much Western European music."

Snape sneered, "Of course you didn't." He grabbed Harry's wrist and making sure he had a firm grip, pulled him into the pensieve, and they landed in a large concert hall. Snape gestured for them to stand to the side, since all of the seats were taken. Harry looked at his strange surroundings; everyone was dressed in an old fashion, and it was strange, even for wizards. They looked like muggles from the 1900s. On the stage, not incredibly far away, were dancers dancing some strange tribal rite.

He heard something like a low oboe resonate through the old air. "This is the opening bassoon solo. Very nice, isn't it?" Snape didn't seem to care for the dancing, so Harry tried to concentrate only on the music.

Harry wondered what Snape was getting at. Sure, it was a nice bassoon solo, but he couldn't understand what was so great about it. Then, _there!_ "Sour chord," Harry commented hesitantly. Was this an amateur performance or something? No, there were too many people attending for this to be an amateur orchestra. "Er, another sour chord?" he said to himself, listening to the discordant sounds. Even the spectators in the memory started whispering to each other.

"_Boo!" _was heard from a listener somewhere, and additional discouragements followed in angry succession.

"It is in the score," Snape simply said. Harry didn't know how Snape was able to read his mind without legilimizing him, but somehow, the man was able to see his doubt. "Do not look so incredulous, Potter. Here." Snape unshrunk the parchment he had taken earlier and handed it to him. He started making his way toward the stage from where they were, following whoever had the memory in the first place.

Harry looked down at the mess of notes, sharps and flats strewn all over the place. "What key is this in?" he asked, trying to understand what kind of song it was. He looked down at the score, noting the instruments, and busying himself with seeing how instruments were called on the Italian score. He noticed a word beside a line of music and snickered.

"What is so entertaining Potter?" Snape growled, as he continued walking toward the stage, though Harry could not see if they were following anyone or if Snape was moving of his own accord.

Harry worried his lip, wondering if he should tell the irate man. He shrugged in his mind—might as well, since he had detentions until he graduated. "It says _fagotti_."

Snape blinked. Twice. "Your immaturity astounds me."

"It's just funny," Harry tried defending himself, "A long time ago, I learned that the Italian '_violin' _came from some random Roman goddess for joy or something. But the bassoon? The Italian for bassoon is a bundle of sticks?" Harry snickered again.

"Is that it?" Snape snorted, as if he were containing his laughter. They stopped right in front of the stage, close enough that they could see into the pit containing the orchestra, and close enough to have the jarring music disturb Harry's senses. The music was nothing compared to the ruckus the audience was making, though.

Harry looked at him, head cocked to the side. "Well, yeah. What did you think I was think—Professor!"

Snape folded his arms, looking away as if embarrassed. "I said nothing."

Suddenly, they heard a shout. Snape leaped onto the stage with unexpected grace and looked at Harry to join him. Harry tried to imitate Snape's jump—after all, the man was at least twenty years older than him, and Harry was supposed to be hin his prime—and landed clumsily, as if he had tumbled from the floo network. He swiftly forgot his ungainliness as he looked out over the crowd.

"What's going on?" he asked, not realizing he asked aloud.

Snape merely walked further onto the stage, looking behind the props and the stage and the curtains. Harry's eyes widened as he turned to the violent audience and saw punches thrown and people hit with canes. Shouts filled the theatre, and chaos was everywhere. Snape stopped well into the stage so that Harry could see a man, perhaps the choreographer, shouting numbers in some language, probably Russian or Albanian, to the dancers who probably couldn't hear the music due to the noise of the angry throng of people. The lights started flickering, but from his new perspective, he could see a different man fiddling with the lights in a vain attempt to calm the crowd. Harry had no idea how that would help.

"That's Camille Saint-Saëns," said Snape, nodding toward a section in the audience, from which there was a man rising from his seat. He looked disgusted at the music and the orchestra, and in a dignified manner, left the theater. Harry could only assume that this was Saint-Saëns.

"And that's Igor Stravinsky," Snape pointed out. On the stage, Harry focused his gaze on a man on the verge of tears looking out over the heated audience. The man turned and fled the scene, and Harry could only feel sorry as the scene melted away, the chaos remaining in the one memory.

"Wow," Harry said, as he set solid foot on the dungeon floor.

"Indeed. You have just witnessed, Mr. Potter, the power of music."

"You mean noise!" Harry argued.

Snape rolled his eyes and took the sheet music back from Harry without any malice. "You didn't even hear the whole thing, and you're already judging it? What stupidity!"

"You're saying I'll like it more if I listened to the whole thing?"

Snape did not reply, but he did place the memory back into the vial and stoppered it. He levitated it back to the high shelf and replaced the sheet music in its proper place. "Perhaps. Remember you have detention next Saturday. And get out."

Harry hovered outside the door to the dungeons, wondering what just happened. Snape didn't tell him to 'get out' with any malice. In fact, it sounded like it was just a normal, if neutral, dismissal.

* * *

Saturday night was a quiet affair in the Room of Requirement with Ron and Hermione, but Harry couldn't stand the noise or the lights. Harry pulled a dampened napkin over his eyes and groaned. "I'm so tired of everything." He'd been working of his assignments all day, since the past week had been a blur of Snape, Snape, music, and more Snape.

"He acts like he's being all gracious, moving my detentions, but you know, it would be even better if he'd just cancel them! It's not like I do anything, anyway!" He didn't hear the squeak of the door.

"Harry--," Hermione tried to interrupt.

"I go there, and he drills me on music of all things, and generally just makes me feel uncomfortable and stupid. And he's always saying that Vivaldi's wrong, and he never explains himself, and he expects people to just _accept_ everything he says as gospel truth. He's so arrogant!" Nor the two pairs of footsteps.

He felt Ron's hand tightly gripping his shoulder. "Harry, please, shut up!"

Harry yanked his shoulder away from Ron and growled, "No, this needs to be said! I know how to handle mean Snape, Slytherin Snape, unfair biased Snape, but I have no idea what to do with this strangely civil Snape. I can't handle so much change in one year, and I almost wish Snape would go back to being the unreasonable bully."

"Harry!" both Ron and Hermione shouted.

Turning his head to the side, he opened his eyes. He slipped the towel slightly off, and glared at his friends, snarling, "What!" Their frightened expressions told him that there was something wrong. Something really wrong. With a resigned sigh, he said, "He's right behind me, isn't he?"

"No, Potter, I'm right in front of you."

Harry wrenched his head forward, ignoring the painful whiplash, and imagined that his face held the same expression as his friends'. "Uh, hey Professor. What're you doing here?"

"I expect you in the dungeons in ten minutes," the man simply said before turning on his heel and disappearing.

"I wouldn't want to be you right now, mate," was all that Ron said, patting his back.

Hermione only frowned. "We tried to warn you. Just go, it's not like anything else is going on today. Just be back before curfew, please?"

Harry sighed. "Yeah, yeah..."

* * *

The boy's rants didn't disturb him. Not at all. Did he even realize that he was being _civil_ with Potter Jr.? When did he start being 'civil Snape,' anyway? Severus growled. It was the music. He was so enamoured with music—or maybe he was trying to recapture Lily in a boy who was obviously like his father.

But neither Lily nor, god forbid, James, had perfect pitch. And it had been bothering him all day. The ability to determine pitch without aid had been explored by scientists and wizards alike for centuries, maybe millennia. Many thought it was genetic, but he knew that, as skilled as Lily undoubtedly was, she did not have perfect pitch. And Potter Sr. was the least musical man in the history of man. So, if this Potter had perfect pitch, it was only Severus's duty to cultivate the boy's talent. To make the boy realize his gift.

Even if it tore at his heartstrings and clawed at his mind.

Ten minutes later, he sat at his desk opposite a miniature James. Severus unsheathed his wand and waved it once. A pleasant, somewhat high-pitched sound buzzed in the air, an A sharp, Severus concluded. He looked at Potter, wondering what the boy would reveal if he legilimized him right then and there.

"Tell me, Potter, what note do you think this is?"

Potter looked at him strangely, and Severus didn't mind. If their roles were switched, he'd be confused too. Pausing only that second, Potter said, "I'm not sure. It sounds like an A sharp."

Severus snapped his eyes onto Potter's and resisted the urge to delve into the boy's mind. "What, not a B flat?" Severus asked him.

Potter's mouth opened as if he were going to say something, but closed it and furrowed his brow. "No, it's…different from a B flat."

This was interesting. "How can you be sure?" Severus wheedled.

The boy's hands were clenched, probably more because of his confusion rather than anger. "I can't be sure, Snape. It just is."

"Ah. Try this one." He magicked another note, in a different octave, just in case Potter's relative pitch was any good.

"That's C. Sounds like middle C," Potter said confidently. And before Severus could ask why he thought so, the boy added, "It sounds like the second finger on the A string. Definitely."

Severus nodded. He tried not to show his excitement. Perfect pitch! Even if it was a Potter, it was Lily's son. And Lily's son was a prodigy with absolute pitch. If only Lily were here to be proud of her child, because no one else would—Severus stopped thinking right there.

"Well, Potter, I guess you've never tested yourself for perfect pitch?"

The boy's eyes widened. "Is that what you've been doing? I have perfect pitch?" the boy asked, his voice bordering on delight. Severus almost regretted testing the boy. This was only another ability to add to Potter's ever growing list of the Boy's-Who-Lived talents.

"Mozart, Beethoven, Bach…I—them!"

Severus was suddenly disgusted at the boy. He thinks he's at the same level of the great composers? Ha! Severus snorted and sneered, "Don't think you're so special, boy." Was that a flinch, Mr. Potter? "Perfect pitch doesn't automatically put you at the same caliber of the greats. If you assumed so, then I would also be among them." There! That should put the boy in his place. He must not be used to sharing his gifts.

Indeed, it seemed Potter paled and stiffened. Well, that wasn't quite the reaction he was seeking, but it was a reaction all the same. "Potter, get out. You still have detention next Saturday," this time, he remembered to inject as much venom as he could into his tone. Potter would never have to worry about him being civil again. He slammed the door once Potter was standing the hall. "Civil, indeed," he muttered angrily to himself.

* * *

Classes dragged on for Harry, and he realized he should have been happy at the lack of Voldemort so far that year when he was called to Dumbledore's office.

"Harry, I hope everything has been well this year?" the old man asked, looking him in the eye.

Harry remembered to keep the room at the forefront of his mind in case Dumbledore was suspicious. "Er, relatively uneventful, sir. So, I guess that's not the only reason you called me up here," he said, wanting to get straight to the point. He was supposed to meet Vivaldi today.

"Yes, well, I have been meaning to tell you a few truths. Some very hard-hitting truths," the weary man sighed. "And I've been trying to let you grow up without having to worry."

Harry didn't feel anger this time. Sympathy, for the old man and his sad, sometimes misled attempts to bring good, was Harry's primary feeling. Fear and indignation struggled for second, one dreaded what the truth could be, and the other felt offended for having been kept from the truth. So he just nodded.

"Tom Riddle…well, we'll start before that. Merope Gaunt."

And that started the trips down memory lane. He grew to understand the Dark Lord better than anyone else, even Dumbledore. For only Harry could understand, not condone or excuse, Riddle's decisions. Harry had no hatred for muggles, but he could see how someone could grow to hate his oppressors, his bullies. It seemed Riddle never had a Hermione, or a Ron, never had Dumbledore as Harry had Dumbledore. He had endless ambition, hatred for those who hurt him, and no loving support system.

"_Horcruxes. Seven of them."_

And Harry wondered if he would have walked that very same path if Riddle hadn't done so before him, if Harry didn't have his friends and Remus and Dumbledore and Sirius, and everyone else who loved him.

"_Only one deed can split a soul as Tom Riddle did. And he split it many times."_

And Harry left, his mind filled with 'what if's.

* * *

Draco was faring no better, but for a completely different reason. The disillusionment spell revealed far more than he expected. Far, _far_ more. Vivaldi's room, to think there was another room—! To think, Draco would have never guessed that Vivaldi's room could be created in the strange room. The same room he had been using to hide—but he wasn't going to think about it.

Days ago, when he'd miserably walked toward the room of hidden things, he hadn't expected to see Potter and company walking back and forth in front of it. Did they know how to find the room? Draco was amazed when he saw the three casually walk into a room completely different from the room he had been seeing for the past few months. He was tempted to go in. But he decided not to. At least, until Severus Snape came gliding down the corridor.

The man hesitated before the door, but didn't hesitate long. Draco slithered through the door just as Snape closed it behind him. The room was exactly like Severus's closet. The chairs, the piano, the bookcases, even Vivaldi was there! And boy, was the composer shooting him panicked looks.

There was really no risk for himself, Draco thought. After all, if any of them did see through the disillusionment charm, then Severus would just chide him and let him go. It wasn't as if the room were restricted for the use of a few people.

He heard Potter complaining, the drama queen. "I go there, and he drills me on music of all things, and generally just makes me feel uncomfortable and stupid. And he's always saying that Vivaldi's wrong, and he never explains himself, and he expects people to just _accept_ everything he says as gospel truth. He's so arrogant!" Both Severus and unseen Draco took a few steps forward.

A frightening thought hit Draco. Harry Potter knew Vivaldi. Harry Potter had contact with Severus. Harry Potter was a musician?

"Harry, please, shut up!" Really, Potter, listen to the weasel and stop yapping. Draco's head felt like it would explode from the new and shocking information.

"No, this needs to be said!" Draco felt nauseous. "I know how to handle mean Snape, Slytherin Snape, unfair biased Snape, but I have no idea what to do with this strangely civil Snape. I can't handle so much change in one year, and I almost wish Snape would go back to being the unreasonable bully."

Vivaldi said that Snape didn't know he had a kid, so why was Potter claiming that Sev was being nice? Draco hadn't seen Severus be anything but unfair toward Potter.

"Harry!" both Ron and Hermione shouted.

Draco snickered. "What!" Potter yelled. Draco watched with glee as horror grew upon Potter's face. "He's right behind me, isn't he?"

"No, Potter, I'm right in front of you." Draco almost couldn't stifle his laughter.

"Uh, hey Professor. What're you doing here?" What, no 'Snape,' no 'greasy git'? What was wrong with these Gryffindors?

"I expect you in the dungeons in ten minutes."

"I wouldn't want to be you right now, mate," Weasel said.

"We tried to warn you. Just go, it's not like anything else is going on today. Just be back before curfew, please?"

"Yeah, yeah..."

And Draco followed Potter out the door, and raced to the dungeons, ending up at Severus's office before Potter. He couldn't infiltrate Severus's office. It would be a serious breach of trust; the room was completely different from Severus's office.

Ah, but the potions classroom, now _that_ was completely different. Draco had no qualms about sneaking into the classroom. After all, it was a classroom! He stood in a darkened corner in the back, strengthening his charm. If it failed now, he wasn't sure how he'd explain himself, because he was sure Severus wouldn't appreciate his eavesdropping in this particular case.

He expected something grand, something dramatic, something…more than Severus asking Potter to identify sounds. How lame. Who cared if Potter could tell that a random sound was, what was it, an A-sharp? No one, except apparently Severus. Draco glared at them, glared at Severus' growing excitement and Potter's confusion.

Severus looked entirely too happy. Of course, the man wasn't smiling or laughing, but even from the back of the room, Draco could see his eyes sparkling. Severus Snape generally had bored eyes, uninterested in the mundane, the _doxa_, as he had once put it. But now, those black orbs sparkled with exhilaration, and dare he say it, _happiness_.

Draco remembered a time when he was child, and Severus's happiness could only be caused by a hug from little Draco, or a badly drawn picture. These days, all Draco could cause in Severus was worry and doubt. These days, Severus's happiness could be caused by _Potter_ identifying some stupid random notes! Draco fled the scene before he could vomit at the sight of a happy Severus and an oblivious Potter.

That was how Draco found himself under another disillusionment charm, sitting in front of the room. It was in the middle of the week and Severus was busy doing professorly things, like grading and shouting and drinking wine.

He couldn't wait forever, and he couldn't go into Severus's closet. So here he was. He opened the door to the room, desiring that room, the same room Potter had been in a few days before.

"Draco!" Vivaldi said in surprise, not at all unhappy to see the boy again.

"I know."

Vivaldi cocked his head to the side, his wig almost sliding off. "You know what?" But the man was rapidly paling, as if there were an invisible painter brushing white oils onto Vivaldi's already pale face.

It didn't matter if Draco was wrong. He would just continue to investigate. He was a Slytherin after all, and he was clever if nothing else. Any idiot could put two and two together. One, it was a boy, so that ruled out half of the Hogwarts population. Two, it was someone who had (or used to have, Draco thought bitterly), a shared animosity with Severus, and that ruled out a fourth of that half. Lastly, it was someone who knew and dealt with Vivaldi on a regular basis. Draco knew that Vivaldi had only one other student apart from himself. And if that was Harry Potter, then Severus's mysterious son had to be none other than the Boy-Who-Lived.

Draco smirked. "You _know_ what I know." Draco hoped he was at least confusing the man a little. Having a befuddled opponent made things easier. Draco couldn't believe his luck—the blackmail potential in this information as astounding! He'd never have to listen to Vivaldi prattle on about music ever again!

The man let out a sigh, one of those resigned sighs, as if there were no hope. "So I do. And apparently so do you. Tell me, young Draco, what do you intend to do with this new information?"

Apparently Vivaldi was not as stupid as Draco thought him. "I thought it would be clear," Draco sneered, "I won't reveal to Potter and Severus that I know of their blood relation, and you won't tell Severus when I skip these ridiculous sessions."

Draco scowled when he saw the composer shaking his head slowly. "I think not."

"Then I'll tell Severus," Draco countered.

The composer let out another bone-weary sigh, and it was starting to annoy Draco. "I suppose you'll do what you must. Personally, I would rather Gato know. It is young Harry who doesn't want him to know. You would actually do me a favor, since I would not bear the guilt for telling him."

"But you're the one who slipped that Severus even had a son!" Draco protested. It wasn't fair! The one Slytherin-like thing he thought he could actually do, and it falls flat.

Vivaldi smiled sadly. "I must atone for that. But it remains that I am not the one who will tell Gato. Go ahead."

Draco glared at the painting. Telling Severus, would that be a good thing or a bad thing? Telling had no adverse effects for him personally, he thought, but what would it do to Severus? Draco wouldn't fool himself into thinking he knew everything about his godfather. He didn't know how the man's mind worked. Then there was Potter.

For Potter, things could go either of two ways: one, the more likely, Severus denies Potter and things go back to the way they were or become worse, or two, the impossible, Severus accepts Potter and Draco loses his godfather to the Golden boy.

But Severus would never abandon Draco, and though Draco didn't know his godfather completely, he did know that his godfather loved him unconditionally. Right? But that scene in the potions classroom…it seemed Severus and Potter were getting along swimmingly. Where did Draco fit in all that? If he did need saving from the Dark Lord, Severus would be there, right? After all, Potter was the symbol of the light; Severus, one of the Dark Lord's most trusted Death Eaters, couldn't be all fatherly toward Potter. But then, what happened in the potions classroom? Perhaps it was a ploy!

Yes! Draco thought triumphantly. It could only be an act to lure Potter into the Death Eaters' clutches. Severus being Potter's father could only help the Dark Lord. Unless Severus wasn't acting, and genuinely didn't hate Potter…it was music after all, and if Severus had a weakness, it was music.

It all came down to one decisive question: did Severus really hate Potter?

Draco's thoughts were making little sense.

"Before you go, though, Severus asked that the next time you visit, I have you see a memory he found for you."

"Is it his?" Draco asked suspiciously. It seemed like a random afterthought, as if Draco telling Severus about Potter was no longer a problem.

"His pensieve, but not his memory. He keeps certain memories that he finds useful. He thought this might make you appreciate what you have."

Pfft! Please, Severus didn't intend to show him a memory about some poor child with no money and no parents, did he? Draco knew very well how fortunate he was, and he didn't care that other people were less fortunate. It wasn't his problem.

"It might interest you. But of course, it is not here. If you wish to see it, you must ask the room to recreate it here."

Did Draco want to waste his time looking at an old memory? As if! He scoffed and walked toward the door, his mind drifting away from whether he should reveal Snape and Potter's shared blood and toward what that memory might be. What could Snape possibly want Draco to see, and why did Vivaldi not care if he saw it at all? Vivaldi was taking an awfully passive stance lately, and it bothered Draco. What could that memory be?

Draco didn't see the smile on Vivaldi's face as the pensive materialized on a cushioned chair. But Draco did realize that he wanted to find out whatever Severus wanted him to know.

Throwing all caution to the wind, Draco hovered before the pensieve and leaned down into its depths.

* * *

A/N: Usually don't have author's notes at the end, but I wanted to see what you guys think the memory will be about. I can tell you right now that it's not in canon. It's something from history. I wonder if anyone will get it...if you want me to reply about how close/far you are, just mention it in a review *cough*


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